


Destruction and Salvation

by Diane Marling (Lauredessine)



Series: Salvation [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crusades, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauredessine/pseuds/Diane%20Marling
Summary: When a knight, back from Holy Land, is caught in an ambush and is dying in the forest, a young ale brewer by the name of Ide cannot be indifferent. For her soul or her conscience she decides to save him. Little does she knows that by saving him she may be saving her own life too.





	1. Into the woods

 It had been such a long time since he last felt the thin and penetrating rain of Normandy; such a while since he last rode across fields and forests; such a while since he last saw the green of the leaves, felt the cold wind on his cheek and wore a heavy cloak lined with fur; such a while he last saw his own country. And it changed, that country. Over the years, the wild forests had been stripped from several trees for field to be born and used; and new farms and villages bloomed during those years; and as he passed in front of them, his father's serfs stared at him with a mix of defiance and curiosity as they usually stared at knights riding in the countryside.

When he looked around him, the colors stunned his perception of reality, from the dull green of pine trees to the vibrant gold of wheat ready for harvest to the red of poppies, all was here to remind him of his past and of that man he once was, long ago; and the scent of rain falling on earth and herbs, of sap and leaves only made memories realer. He was back in this land that saw him grow and although he would soon leave it again, he was glad and certain that the vivid sensations of this landscape would stay with him for as long as his mind worked. If there was something he did not wish to lose, it was this; his mind and the memories, as painful they might be.

He gave a sigh and looked at the perpertually grey sky above. Summer. It was Summer and yet, everything was dull and grey. He closed his eyes and let rain wet his skin and suddenly, a thought came to him. Rain was not eternal. Soon, the slow downpour would cease and the sky would be colored with as many colors as God chose to paint it. he gave a slight chuckle and turned to look behind. He was about to make a comment and to laugh but behind him was no one and his smile faded and words lost their ways in his throat. He was alone.

He sighed again and supressed tears that came, rushing into his eyes. With a tearless sob, he spurred on his horse and followed by another, ridden of its rider and burdened with heavy chests.

One more forest to cross and he would be back in the land his father administrated. One more forest to cross and he would be home. He wondered if the man he sent to inform his brother of his pending return was already at the small manor his father was still building to replace the old motte-and-bailey castle. He wondered if things had changed and if his mother had made more tapestries to warm up the large rooms. He wondered if his bed was still there and he wondered if it still was in the state he left it in. He wondered what changed; and if the world he had always know had changed as much as himself had changed.

The rain finally stopped and Roland gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank God!” he groaned.

Mechanically, his hands twisted the bridle of his horse, restless, as his eyes wandered around, looking for any sign of danger and the sounds of the forest did not help. Every flinch of his horse's muscles tricked him in believing some sort of danger crept behind and each sounds were enough to startle him. Behind every trees seemed to hide a shadow and often, he glanced behind him, either to make sure his second horse was still there or to watch out for any perils. But as he saw nothing, he turned around and gave a tearless sob, recalling of his loneliness on the path home. He was alone and it was both pain and relief.

“No one is here.” he whispered to comfort himself. “God is my king. God's arms my home. God dwells here.” he muttered. “God dwells here.”

He briefly closed his eyes then re-opened them and kept moving, glancing to trees, trunks and moss, trying to think and count how much he weighted. Everything to keep him from dreaming.

Ever since he began his journey back to his cold home, restless he had been. He had barely slept, rode faster than what he should have been, fought thieves and killed them which had led to dreadful aftermath; he had watched the fields of France, counting every straw of wheat and memorizing people's face as a mental distraction. He had cowered when mist appeared at night, like a ghost of everything he had slain; he had cowered and wept as he had screamed his terror away.

Ever since he began his journey home, there had not been a single day he had not wept. And every day, he kept on repeating His name to bring him strength to survive another; and reminded himself of what awaited at the end of the road. For all the pain in the world, what was at the end of the road was worth it.

Then suddenly, an arrowripped through the air and came to sink itself into a tree. Roland gasped and his heart started to race in his chest. Adrenaline came to give him strength but he was paralyzed as his mind was suddenly overwhelmed by memories and he started to shake and panic as a ringing sound resounded behind his ears. He heard men screaming and saw them come out of their hiding spot to him with axes, bows and swords: those were not thieves. Those were trained men and ther purpose was clear. They wanted him dead.

Roland wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and weep and bury himself deep into the ground. But he was voiceless and did nothing.

Until an arrow came way too close to his head; so his old reflexes came back and he swiftly dismounted and unseathed his sword to fight. There were too many of them to kill them all and Roland thought he recognized some of the men who were attacking. He was certain that a few of them used to be playmates of his and his brother.

He was surrounded. There was no escape possible from what was about to strike; a storm of swords. Roland struck first. He was experienced enough to prevail against a few but he wasn't enough to come out of it without injuries. He waved his long sword in the air and struck a shield that was instantly ripped off the arm of a warrior who gave a scream of pain before Roland cut his arm off, then the other. It was the moment they all attacked together; an axe dug deep into Roland's in spite of the heavy mail coat he had never stopped wearing and a blade almost cut off his arm.

With the guard of his sword, Roland immobilized an axe and a sword in mid air while he punched the men who were wielding them; and another man shot an arrow that came to lodge itself in his shoulder blade. With a raging roar, and as a man shot another arrow in his leg, Roland beheaded one of his opponent then, broke the shield of one.

Blood spattered the grass as well a pieces of brain, guts and other limbs as blades were cutting and ripping away flesh. Roland managed to open a man's belly before he was brought down to his knees by another arrow, that pierced his leg. Someone opened his back with an axe and Roland managed to strike his skull and open it with a loud crack, spattering himself with his blood and his brain.

Roland lost himself then. He was no longer human; he was a beast whose instincts were to kill no matter what; and in the fury of the fight, that beast that awokened was to be feared for it ripped off scraps of flesh and broke bones, as if savagery was the only noble act it could ever do.

Another man tried to slaughter him with a spear, but Roland took it and brought the man to the ground. Roland bit his throat so deep the man bled and Roland's mouth was covered with blood as the man shook on him, blood, pouring from his wound. He heard feral grunts and looked around before he realized it was him who gave them, then stood up again and, in spite of his wounds and the amount of blood pouring down from them, struck another was with his heavy sword which led his bones to shatter, and his head to lose its original shape.

He took a rock nearby and with all the strength he had left, wet with sweat, tears an blood, crushed the skull of his enemies, ripped their limbs and made them unrecognizable even by God Himself, as the remaining warriors shot arrows at him and kept on trying to kill him with steel. After he had reduced some wounded's head to pieces, Roland was hit by a shield, and, weakened by an important loss of blood, exhausted, and out of strength, he fell and felt life leave his body as unconciousness prevailed upon him.

In the forest he fell, bathing in a pool of blood and other limbs, too weak to scream and too weak to even open his eyes. He no longer could move his arms and on the ground he rested, vainquished and dying, pierced by a dozen of arrows, his body, merely a giant gaping wound.

And in his vanishing mind, all he felt was relief.

\-- __ --

Ide waited, on the marketplace, thinking about many things to keep her mind busy from grief. She waited impatiently, craving for her own house's comfort and her beloved loneliness. The farthest away from the world of men, the better she was. She did not belong in this world anymore, anyway. There were things too destructive inside of her and she was afraid that if she stayed in the village, she would destroy them all too. There were feelings and emotions too overwhelming to prevail against them and all she could do was trying to hush them, stifle them from her very core. To keep herself busy; that was the key.

“I am sorry.” said Joseph, the baron's supplier.

Ide looked at him and frowned. “Sorry?”

“The price you demand for your ale is too much.”

“That is less than what you pay to the monks of the abbey!” Ide voiced with anger and outrage.

“That is the way it is. Why don't you try selling it to someone else?”

“I have tried! But they all demand lower price and shut their door at me! You're my last chance!”

“I am sorry, Ide. Maybe try during the next great fair? I heard there would be rich merchants.”

“Joseph! You know my ale is better than this piss the monks brew! You know how good it is! Then, why?”

“I think you know why.” said Joseph, with an knowing look.

“Those are rumors.” said Ide as she suddenly felt tears of sorrow fill her eyes. “I have never done anything they say I did. Quite the opposite.”

“Doesn't change the fact that those rumors exist, Ide. I am sorry. People will always believe what they want to believe.” said Joseph with compassion.

“How easy it is to blame me, but not God!” Ide raged. “How easy it is to blame a powerless woman but not an almighty powerful being! Do you think I enjoyed this? Joseph, I suffered more than anyone in this town of what happened last year! I don't even fathom recovering from it.”

Joseph gave a look full of sadness and looked down. “I know, Ide. I know all too well.”

“How will I live, now? I have no money and nothing to sustain my needs!”

“I'll tell Mahaut. She'll know what to do.”

“What?” Ide gasped, horrified. “Oh no! If she hunts on our lord's territory I cannot even think of what would come to her head! They'll kill her Joseph! They'll kill her and then, they'll rape her!”

“Mahaut is strong. She's my sister, I know what I am talking about.”

“Joseph, I know that. I just... I cannot afford to lose her. I would never recover from it.” and just imagining a world without her broke her heart and Ide wanted to cry a river to drown in its waters.

Joseph noticed how heavy her heart was at the thought, as her shoulders suddenly lowered, seemingly crushed by a burden heavier than the sun itself. He could see the way her eyes lost their life and how herself seemed so aloof suddenly. Ide couldn't bear losing Mahaut. She would lose herself in the process.

He sighed. “Fine. But you know her. She will find any way to help you. She may even ask Mary for help.”

“Oh! Mary is a saint. No good she could do would ever surprise me.” said Ide with a warm and sudden smile, brushing the air with her hand. “Ask her for a coat, she'll give you a house.”

Joseph chuckled and looked at her with sparkling eyes. “Call us when you're in need. We will come to help you. Never forget you have friends here.”

“Thank you.” said Ide. “And tell me whenever you need ale, I'll send you my best brew.”

“I won't forget. Tell Samar Mahaut greets her, that is, if she is not wandering around.”

“Her health is declining, I am afraid. She can no longer walk as far as in her youth. Tell Mahaut to visit her. I am certain Samar will enjoy it.”

“Still living with you in her small hut?”

“No. She thought the hut was too large for her so she is building another one, far enough from her former home not to be bothered by my presence. But she still comes to savor ale and cider.”

Joseph nodded. “You know, I have always found her weird, Samar. And I am not alone feeling that. The whole region thinks she might be a witch, you know. First there is her dark skin, her old age and her odd vitality our own elders doesn't have. And then, there is her knowledge... That woman is a witch for sure.”

Ide suddenly grew cold at the accusation. Those rumors again. She had enough of them and that was part of the reasons she desired to avoid the society of men as much as possible. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Joseph, you and I are aware of the fact that there are actually many more people like her south and east of here; so I don't think that the color of her skin is a problem. Her knowledge? She calls it science and perhaps our own ancestors called it that. Besides, what harm could a knowledge that heals could do? Why, when a woman possesses more knowledge than a man, people call her a witch and why when a man does, is he called by the king's bedside? If truly God is fair, then I doubt he sees any justice in that matter. And what does it matter, her religion, when she is doing exactly what God wants his children to do?”

“Ide, I...”

“I am tired.” Ide coldly cut him, grabbing her cart's handles. “And I have yet a forest to cross to go home. Thank you for the help you offered and give my respects to Mahaut. I hope to see her soon.”

“Ide...” Joseph pleaded.

But Ide was done listening; and she took her cart still full of barrels of ale and walked away from the marketplace; away from the town, back to her home and the forest that became her realm. She heard Joseph call her, she heard him trying to make amends, but it was too late and she did not want to hear anything anymore for what she said was true; she was tired. She was tired of the crowd, of all those people and of all the rumors. She was tired of the memories of Tom; of Martha, Lyse, Jack and her parents. She was tired of her heart that felt too much and although she would have been glad and happy to go visit Mahaut and Mary, she wasn't certain she would have emotionally borne it. She probably would have left the minute she would have come in.

Ide looked around and change struck her. More houses had been built, far larger than the formers, and it seemed that the village was blooming to be come a thriving place. It appeared a church was to be built in a new fashion and that an abbey would soon follow. The village was to become an important place and Ide didn't know how their king-duke would react to this. Perhaps, he would tax them more or perhaps he would one day visit there or send a son or daughter to honor church and abbey, but at the moment, nothing was done and the duke-king was sitting on a throne across the sea.

As soon as she passed by the last house of the village and walked across fields to the forest, Ide's heart lightened and it seemed like she was relieved of a burden. She closed her eyes and savored the sounds of birds, of wind making leaves sing; she savored the smell of water on green grass, the sound of wheat straw moved by the wind and the sudden warmth of sunlight on her pale skin. She removed her hood and took a goblet from her cart to pour herself some ale, then drink it.

And as she drank, a terrible thought came to cross her mind: life was good. Life was good but it had no right to be good. Not after what she had been through; not after everything that happened in the village; not when her heart was buried deep into the core of the Earth. Why were they all chanting an laughing when they had no right to do so? Couldn't they see that everything had turned to ashes? Why were the whole town blind? What did they even see in life to be worth fighting for? Why did life go on when death took everything she ever knew and loved; when it took her heart and future? Life was good, how dared it? The world should have ended the day death struck. It should have burned and everything should have turned dull and insignificant, like she often thought it.

She died long ago, so why bother living?

She drank another cup of ale, then a third, then a fourth and her thoughts started to drift away and dizziness took her as she put the goblet back to its place and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. All she wanted at the moment was to drink and to pass out; to sleep for a century or so and feel a bit of this death she longed for. Ide was miserable. There as not a cell of her body that did not beg for pain and all the beer in the world would not be enough to soothe her wounds.

She needed another drink but she was too far from her home to pass out. She would wait then, wait until she was alone in her lair to give herself over to the art of destruction. With a groan, she pulled the cart and headed towards the forest.

It was calm into the forest. It was untouched and holy and if she still believed in God, Ide would have thought it was his garden. That was why she dwelled there; it was a place she knew out of her control; a place away from humans and pain and the only suffering she would ever get in the forest was physical for she was aware of the many dangers there was, there; beasts, predators and thieves. But she wasn't afraid for all that; she knew the forest like no other and she could have walked across it blindfolded. The forest was her realm and in her world, she was a goddess.

That was why, when she saw what appeared to be a man laying on the ground, covered with blood, pine spines and mud, her heart skipped a bit. It was unusual and so frightening. A human body was amiss in the wild, a realm that belonged to the animal reign, it was out of everything she ever experienced in the forest, and especially when it came to men wearing shining mail coats and still holding the handle of a sword. It was unexpected and the unexpected was a thing to dread.

As she took a long straight piece of branch on the ground, she wondered who that man was and how he died; because his state left only little space for hope. His bones might have been broken and the amount of blood that was covering him looked important enough for him to have bled to death.

Carefully, she approached, trying as much as she could not to make a sound, wielding her stick in case the man would wake up again and try to kill her. She poked him and gave a sigh of relief when she noticed he did not wake up. She kneeled by his side and opened one of his eyes; she put her hand above his mouth and pressed her ear on his chest.

“He's alive?” she exclaimed, surprised at the mere thought. “He's alive!”

He was alive and suddenly her fear grew bigger. He was alive and opened to every paths, including the one that inevitably led to death. This man was alive and it reminded her of her own failure; of her inablitity to save those she loved most. What if she killed him too? What if she took him and he died because of him? But leaving him as he was, wasn't it similar to let him die? By refusing to help him, didn't she condemned him to death and a far worse fate than if she took him with her? His life rested on her decisions and suddenly, the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. She had his fate in her hands and it reminded her of those tales Samar enjoyed to tell; those tales full of love, ancient gods, heroes and dreadful wars.

His fate and his life, everything he was or would ever be was up to her. And it terrified her.

She couldn't be responsible fo someone's life, she couldn't bear it. The weight of human life was so heavy on her conscience she felt nauseous. She couldn't be held responsible for this, how could she? What told her she wouldn't make it any worse? She wasn't even responsible for her own person! She was a failure! She drank and it was all she knew to cope with pain! At the moment, she longed to drink! She did not want to care for someone else! Even more when their life was at stake. She couldn't!

She wanted to run away, to leave this place and go hide in a corner where she would drink herself to sleep – or death, but she wasn't picky. She could leave that place she was in, she could be alone again.

But something in this man told her not to. And something stirred in her core; a calling she almost forgot and which drowned in ale for so long; a calling for hope.

This man was alive, wasn't it a chance? Wasn't it a occasion to redeem for all her faults? If she saved him, perhaps her personal curse would cease. Perhaps saving him would mean she wasn't that bad after all. Perhaps, if she saved him, she would prove that it wasn't her fault, everything that happened a year ago? If some deaths, she couldn't erase, this one, maybe she was able to avoid.

With a feverish voice, as she breathed frantically, she mumured “I am going to take care of you. If you can survive for a few hours.”

Then, she poured herself another goblet of strong ale for courage and gulped it. She dragged him to her cart and almost tripped on her dress.

“So heavy!” she grumbled. “Why the armor? Pfffff! So heavy!”

She managed to place him on the cart and gently touched his chest.

“Please, don't die.”

 

 

 


	2. Limbo

 

He was lying on her bed, all covered with blood, mud and even pieces of guts; a surreal and gory scene, so unusual in her small hut, warmed by a hearth while some soup was frothing in a cauldron; it was war and violence, suffering and doleful wound sitting in the middle of warmth, comfort and peace. It did not belong here. He was laying on her bed and Ide drank another cup of ale, recovering from all her effort to bring him here. She was sweating and hot; and dizziness began to weigh on her breathing.

“You really are a heavy man, you know? You big piece of meat.” she grunted. “Well,” she stood up. “better try and save your life now. Hope you're ready. Not like you can give me any coherent answer at the moment.” she laughed.

_But please, give me an answer soon. I so desire to save you._

She went outside fill a bucket with water and took a fresh cloth. First, she ought to clean his face and his wounds so that she could heal him. And of course, there were those arrows she needed to remove and this was the most difficult task for it was equivalent to walking on a rope above an endless gap. One wrong move and it was death for him.

She suddenly shook above him and pressed her hands against her face, seemingly about to flat her nose in the action. One wrong move and it was death for him. One wrong move and she would kill him. One wrong move. One wrong move and she would collapse. She would never recover from it.

Her shaking grew out of control and she almost felt herself falling on the ground. She had been taken by the skin on madness' wings. And she suddenly was out of air. In a rush she went out of the room, outside, where it was cold and wide, and tried to breathe. After a few seconds of panting, struggle against her own throat, lungs and air, the shaking suddenly stopped; and she felt the need of a drink.

It was then she realized she wasted precious seconds to save the man's life and, whoever he might be, she felt terrible endangering him because of cowardice. She had never been brave, but there was a time she had been more daring. But this person died with her heart and her family and it wasn't easy summoning someone you buried a long time ago. She went back inside, breathed in, drank and closed her eyes.

Her head was full of ale and alcohol wasn't the best companion to seek out for lost things; it usually blinded the eyes and covered the ears; and it was the very source of many conflicts and petty fights. But in the absence of any other conscious person, the only enemy left to fight was oneself.

And Ide fought. She opened her eyes and against all odds, against her head, against panic and against fear, she struggled and took pliers to remove the arrows. She placed in his mouth a thick piece of leather for him not to bite his tongue and suffer more than he already was; and she almost wept and hurled as she carefully broke the arrow's shaft as close to the mails as she could. The man gagged and whimpered with pain and he shook on her table; and those doleful sounds alone were enough for Ide to fear for his life. If she killed him... If she killed him... She swallowed her bile and breathed; and put the blade on a knife in boiling water, and tried to remove his heavy gear while his being grew calmer and his whimpers, silent.

The mail coat was the heaviest. It weighted a horse in Ide's arms and she wondered who would ever wear something this burdening. How could a man fight with this? It protected the body, but exhaustion was a heavy price to pay for it.

Ide sweat, cursed and panted with every effort she made not to touch the broken rest of shaft with the mails. It took her an annoyingly long time to remove the battle gear from this gaping wound of a man, but she ultimately succeeded; and blew and drank to reward herself of the effort.

The world started to spin around her, but she gave it little attention. The man was half naked and Ide understood why he was half-dying.

She saw everything; every muscle of his, sharp and buff, every scars on his skin, including a large and swollen one, so white it contrasted with a tan complexion; she saw the wounds, so dreadfully red and opened, the bruises, the cuts and every pine, leaves and dirt stuck on them. She saw everything; from his strength to weakness and the sight of his gory limbs almost made her gag – not that alcohol didn't help the process.

But more than anything, what profoundly distraught her - aside from his wrecked flesh - was his allure; so enthralling and so brutal. He was a marvel of strength and muscles, and as she inspected him, she thought of a war machine, crushing its enemies to the ground, so mercilessly. That man, whatever his name, was handsome and his face seemed to have been carved out of marble; and Ide could hardly find a reason to why he was a warrior. He was a better use as a living work of art.

Then, she saw the arrow-heads; and sighed with relief as she realized how not deep they were. Had they been, she would have had to cut limbs and this, she did not want him to endure. She took her pliers and carefully, thanking her luck for his stupidly heavy mail coat, removed metal from flesh and send them to burn in her fire; a way to kill bad luck.

As she did so, he shook and this time, screamed his pain away, suddenly so awake Ide bit her lips with terror at the sight of this living dead. He was alive, but did not open his eyes; he was alive and yet, for a fleeting moment, Ide wished he had died. He was alive and he seemed trapped in his own body, condemned to an endless misery.

Ide wept. The scene brought back so many painful thoughts; so many doleful floating sounds of people begging for death as they were slowly dying; memories of her father, of her mother, brother, sisters. And Tom.

Memories of Tom whose squalls were knives into Ide's heart. Memories of his hollowed brown eyes; of his gentle smile fading away; of his agony for days and of his death, so freeing and yet, so devastating.

She discarded those memories, however painful they might be, and kept on removing arrow-heads, trying, so desperately not to hear the man's howls and trying to fight against her own tears. The dead must wait; she needed to save a man and life needed her.

At last, she burned the last piece of metal she could find; and washed the warrior; and sang for him, to ease his pain and calm his dying mind; and he stopped screaming; and he was still again, the thick piece of leather, covered with his bile, still in his mouth.

It took her a long time to wash him and night had fallen when she finished. The Summer sky lost its vibrant shades of pink, orange and yellow and night followed; with it, forest magic and endless impossible possibilities that men dreaded, for they did not belong to their realm. At night, everything could be achieved.

Like saving a dying man.

Mist appeared between the trees, a floating ghost over the ground, ethereal and mystical; and Ide felt home again. Night, when she was better; dark and cold, when her own power was at best. A black cat stepped into the house and Ide greeted him with gentle stroke on his ears.

Ide shrouded her fear and took the blade she had put into the flames; and pressed it on naked flesh, as a way to seal some wounds and clean them. He howled again and frothed pain away, writhing on the bed, to escape Ide's grasp on his arms and on his chest. He shook and struggled, but it was no use for a man whose strength left him, to fight a woman used to carry heavy weights; and in this strife, Ide came as the winner. On his wounds, after the burning flesh had stopped boiling, she carefully applied a mixture of several medicinal plants she had mixed altogether following an old recipe Samar had received from another old woman, north of the duchy. Then, she wrapped his ravaged and healing flesh in clean bandages and gave him herbal tea to ease his physical pain.

Her work done, in the middle of hooting of owls, of whimpering of wounded men and of the deceitful sounds of the night and of the woods; in the middle of pangs and relief, she collapsed on the ground, stunned by alcohol, by the fright she experienced, and by the battle she just fought against Death, who constantly stripped away the living to her sister Life. Ide breathed and kept her ears open to hear the warrior's breathe, in fear that he might have passed because of all he had suffered. Whoever hurt him, they must have hated him to inflict such an agony on his poor limbs.

The cat went to crouch on her chest and purred as to give his mistress some comfort after what she had been through.

“Thank you.” whispered Ide, while she stroked the cat. “Thank you Night.”

And she fell asleep, just beneath the warm hearth, where an uneaten soup was still boiling in a heavy cauldron, famished, but satisfied with her work. She fell asleep, and let herself drift to dreams and memories.

It was then, that it began; the screams.

Screams of terror, of sheer pain, squalls coming from the very core of a man's mind and from the very core of fear itself. He screamed, shook, frothed; he was a bag of flesh tossed around by tireless waves, each more powerful than the other. He was drowning in that endless sea of despair birthed from the knowledge of man's darkness.

And in that sea, Ide drowned as well, joined his screams and shook and sobbed as her ears rang with each notes coming from the man's mouth. He yelled names in a foreign tongue, shouted war-cries, grunted and roared his pain away and while he screamed, Ide wept.

She wept, not for herself, not for him; but she wept out of fear of pain, of death and torments. She wept for the perpetual anguish of men and she wept, because his screams reminded her of screams she heard not so long ago.

She poured herself ale again, and again, and again; to stifle the sounds and her senses, she drank. She drank to sleep, letting the man howl and roar and shake. _Let him die_ , she thought, very much stunned and influenced by alcohol, _let him die so that I can rest, or die with him_. Never had any vows for silence been so urgent. Never had she believed she would be willing to let a man die for her own peace.

But again, alcohol had its way with one's mind and although Ide had been drowning her senses in it for longer than she could remember, she was no exception; and she passed out on her floor, face wet with tears, no longer feeling or hearing anything. Peace at last.

 

When she woke up the following morning, she hardly remembered anything beside her cleaning the man's wounds, her healing him and him screaming. It was all a mashed, blurred memory of a dreadful night she wished to forget. Fortunately, he had stopped screaming; otherwise, Ide would have spent her day drinking till she passed out again.

Before she did anything, she inspected his wounds and cleaned his bandages, wiping away blood and other filth with fresh water. He whimpered when she did so, but was glad to note that he survived his night. Maybe there was hope after all...

Ide was tired. So tired. Tired out of booze and emotionally drained. If he screamed again at night, she did not know how she would even react. For a brief moment she considered going to Samar's house to ask for advice, but she was worried that if she left, the man would die, just as her sanity. After all, this man was the last chance she had at proving what happened to her family wasn't her fault; or at least, to make amend for this.

While the man kept sleeping, sometimes whimpering in his sleep, stirring and wincing in pain, Ide cleaned the house, went to check on the ale she brewed, went outside to fetch some herbs she knew would give her ale more flavor, prepared soup for the wounded man, good enough for him to recover, drank and drank each time a painful memory appeared.

Having someone injured in the house, laying on her bed, all of it painfully brought back pictures she would have wished never to see again. Maybe once, she had been brave, but once was long ago and at the moment the only answer to her problems, it seemed, was to drown her cowardice and lose herself into work and ale.

Drowning... At the moment it was the only thing she could do and she cursed herself for her weakness, whipped her pride with her wallowing and drank again as a reflex although she knew what it did to her. But pain, sometimes was the only way to forget a greater suffering.

It was calm when she came back into her house. It was as if the wounded man's life had left, for her was still and quiet. A statue made of marble. Ide's heartbeat stopped but she was reassured by the way his chest seemed to cling to life, breathing air in and out of his lungs. Ide took care of feeding him and cleaned once again his wounds. Within a few days, his health seemed to improve, but the healer doubted her patient would ever recover fully. There would be consequences and an aftermath after what he had been put through and iron would surely never leave his tender flesh.

Bells rang afar and Ide closed her eyes. Sunday, it was Sunday; a day when the masses went to fill a church hollowed from any good and any god. She shed a tear thinking of her sister there, and another, thinking of her parents who died there. Blood called her to church, but her heart was buried in the forest while her mind drowned, damaged by what Ide deemed to be her salvation and alone, she wept and whimpered, kneeling beside a man caught between life and death.

There was no god in this world. Such was Ide's decision. There was no god and love was dead. In the house, no livings dwelt, only the ghosts, shreds of a former life.

It was quiet in the house, as quiet as death.

 

Three days passed, three days quiet and calm when the sun reigned over the world and full of pain and agony when night fell and with it, its veil of magic and secrets. Never had Ide been so affected by her double work. She considered leaving her house to Samar's and ask for guidance but reproved the idea of leaving him alone, under the threat of further attacks.

So she stayed. She stayed and endured every squalls, every whimper, every drop of blood. To this she answered with ale and the house soon began to stink from booze and rotting. And Ide wept for her shame, while her cat lay on the floor and purred, proving himself to be somewhat a source of solace to a distraught mistress.

On the fourth day, a knock on the door drew Ide out of her torpor and she opened to the light of a new day and the reassuring figure of Samar at the doorstep, her eyes warm and yet harsh with expectations and the inflexibility that fitted her age.

If she had not wept an ocean and dried her eyes, Ide would have shed tears of relief, but instead, she merely gave a weak smile.

“Samar.” said she.

“Move. Let an old woman enter this cave you call a house.” said the old woman stepping forward and wrinkling her noses, visibly disgusted by the smell. “I did not gave you my house for you to turn it into this... this stinky ruin.”

“I...” began Ide.

“Go fetch me some water and clean your dishes while I prepare some herbal tea. I brought some bread I bought from Mahaut's brother-in-law and honey from my bees. Now go. Tend your house.”

“But Samar...”

“Did I teach you disobedience?” harshly asked Samar. “Now go. And none of that drinking thing of yours. Your bad habits must stop.”

“Tending the house, I can do. But do not ask me to stop drinking. That, I cannot.” answered Ide with that same authority Samar talked with.

“We'll see. Now, tend your business. You have been helping him far too long, healing life back into him to the cost of yours. He looks more alive than you, that man.” she said, sitting next to him.

Ide could have chuckled had she not lost any strength to smile. She complied to Samar's orders and washed, cleaned cups and plates, changed old bandages for new ones cleaned wounds and swiped the floor while Samar used a freshly cleaned cauldron to prepare her tea. Focused, she hummed a song in her foreign tongue wile stirring the brewing water, eyes closed sprinkling the water with some spices.

Ide watched her carefully, entranced by her melody and refined manners. There was something about Samar, something that called for more; something otherworldly and utterly divine. It was a feminine strength and a display of charm, something that called for generations of women who had preceded her and whose knowledge she was now the heir of and to which Ide would one day inherit as well, when she would reach the gift of wisdom.

“Was it so easy,” said abruptly Samar, “to drown back into booze so quickly? Have you done any efforts?”

“Yes. I tried to stop drinking for a few days but I started again. I needed it so urgently.” Ide said without shame and yet with all the misery of the world.

“We must fix this.” grumbled Samar. “You must start by drinking less, Ide. There is no glory in dying in one's own piss and vomit.”

Ide kept silent, her eyes locked on her broom, chasing dust out of the house. Samar's judgment was for her both hard and needed.

“There is nothing to be helped.” she whispered with a broken voice.

“It does not do well to forsake a clean room.” said Samar, ignoring Ide's former plea. “Especially when one is a brewer and a healer. It does more damages than it does good and a man, to heal, needs as much care as a clean house. Do you understand, Ide? A filthy environment can but bring infections. You do not want that.”

Ide shed another tear and sniffled, visibly wounded by Samar's hard truth.

“Why the tears, my child?”

“Shame, Samar. Shame for my wallowing. I am not a good healer.”

Samar lowered her eyes and shook her head, rebuking herself for the way she had said things. “Come.” said she motioning a stool near the bed.

Ide complied and Samar gently guided her to herself holding her hand, drawing her to a warm embrace.

“You have much to learn and my time has not yet come. Ide, it is true you must be ashamed, but never of your skills, only of your drinking. I care about you like I would a daughter. My words are not said out of disgust or hatred, but out of love.”

Ide shed more tears, relieved and thankful at the same time, her mind weakened by too much ale to keep it together. And while she cried, Samar stroke her hair, whispered gentle words in spite of her stern voice.

“So,” said Samar, “who is he, the man you chose to heal? How did he come across your bed?”

“I found him in the forest.” said Ide as she went to fetch tea for her master. “He was severely wounded but still, he breathed. So I took him in, vowed to save him.”

Samar took the cup Ide gave her and drank, brows furrowed. “He is a knight, isn't he?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“His body is not one of a farmer. He has been bred for war and it shows... and there is that sword right by his bedside. It is odd he still has it. Thieves usually takes all.”

“Maybe it weren't thieves who attacked him.” suggested Ide.

“Indeed... So the forest hides many dangers. Should we be worried?”

“You are the wisest among us Samar. You tell me.”

Samar gave a mischievous laugh. “No, we don't. After all, of hither we are the mistresses, its mist and its night that bathe in moonlight. If anything, it is the men who should be afraid.”

“What will happen if the ones who attacked him found out he isn't dead. What will happen if they find him here with me?” Ide asked with a growing fear.

“Fear not. He will stand up long before they find you. The house is well guarded after all; spirits and ghosts of the deceased often wander here, and do not doubt the power of the fog to lose those you do not want to see here.”

“How do you know that?”

“I am not only a healer, Ide. I am also a seer when the time requires me to be.”

“I knew you were not fully human.” said Ide with an amused laugh.

Samar's lips twitched to form a brief tensed smile. “Back to him, that... knight.” she spat the word with as much contempt as she could. “You have done a fine work on the bandages and the wounds and I believe flesh will soon grow into a scar. But what I cannot be proud of, is you saving such a man.”

Ide slowly rose to Samar a hurtful sight, her lips trembling, her eyes growing wet and a look of sheer confusion crossing her face.

“But we save people. We heal. Isn't what healers are supposed to do?” asked Ide.

Samar shot the unconscious man beside her a glare full of rancor, and gripping her cup, she looked back at Ide and the latter saw, in the eyes of the old woman such a bitterness she knew there was something more about it than what Samar previously let on.

“Those men, no.” scornfully said Samar.

“What have they done to you?”

“To me, nothing.” said she with grief. “But to my people, they have done much in the past and now, they leave this land to another in the name of religion to kill people from my own. They are not my people, Ide, but still, we are connected like a root to another. Those men kill innocents under false claims, slaughter children and women for the sake of killing and the thrill of a violated land; in the names of their god, they behave sinfully with the promise of holiness and who is there to witness? Only crows on battlefield, ravaged bodies and slaves. They wage war and impose their cruelty on those who have dwelt here for centuries. Those men are monsters, and this one is no different.”

Ide glanced at the man and saddened by Samar's tale she shed a single tear, the last one she could. “But he can be my salvation.” she whispered.

“Or your destruction.” said Samar.

Ide turned her face to Samar and said with a fierce determination: “If I save him, then all I ever learned from you will not be meaningless! I need to save him! If I save him, then I am no longer cursed!”

“You should not think you are cursed in the first place.” Samar said.

“Why? Isn't it your god or my sister's who decided my family and betrothed should die?!”

“No. That is how life is; it does not last.” said Samar. “I have no god, Ide. I lost my faith long ago and now my only beliefs are in myself, the hard truth of life and a goddess.”

“I need a drink.” grumbled Ide.

“No you don't!”

“I do!”

“Then you will kill him! Your skills must not be rusted by alcohol!” Samar yelled.

“Isn't his death what you want? Make up your mind!” Ide yelled back with all the fury she could.

For a brief moment, Samar seemed about to agree to Ide's words, but she grew quiet again and looked down, giving a long and tired sigh.

“No.” said she. “You are a healer. In spite of all my resentment, I cannot let you shame me by not using your skills.”

Ide stared, panting, tearing up, whimpering in despondency. “I must save him then...” whispered she. “I removed the arrow-heads and started to heal his broken bones and bruises, but ever since I have done it, he had been screaming at night; of terror or fright, I do not know. But his squalls had me drowning the pain he had inflicted upon me in ale and I cried, Samar, I cried more than I did my entire life. I almost felt like my eyes were going to fall. I haven't slept much for a week.”

Samar stroked her inked wrinkled chin and put her hand on Ide's forehead. She nodded.

“My tea will do you good. You will rest and I will be here tonight to take care of you. Then, I will go, and you will have to prove yourself brave, am I clear?”

“Yes.” breathed Ide.

Then, Samar moved her hand from Ide's forehead, to the knight's; and Ide couldn't help but wonder about the knight's pale complexion – though he was tanner than herself – and Samar's brown hand, covered with dark inked lines and scars. Samar was old, but her body was strong as a tree, and she was covered with wrinkled but in them flowed a constant energy. If the oldest trees of a forest were the strongest and the most beautiful of all, then, Samar was within the forest of men, the oldest and the most powerful of all.

She closed her deep brown eyes and hummed something before she turned her sight to Ide. “He is feverish.” said she. “But do not fret, the fever will go down if you work well, and then, he will rest a few more weeks before he wakes up. He could wake up sooner, or he could later, it has not yet been fixed; he is trapped between life and death and gambling his salvation walking on a very thin thread. One misstep and he is done, for the damages were heavy.”

“I understand.” said Ide.

“Now, rest. You will need it for the next few weeks.”

“Fine.” sighed Ide, rising to fetch a blanket and lay in the corner she had set up a spartan bed. “But don't throw away my ale.”

“No, it is worth too much money. But I can hide it.” said she mischievously.

Ide gave a weak laugh.

“Say, Samar...”

“Hm?”

“Could you sing to me? To sleep.”

“Of course.” said the woman, rising up to prepare some tea. “Rest now, I guard the door of your dreams.”

And cradled by Samar's familiar and yet so peculiar voice, Ide fell asleep, and for dreams, only the reassuring tales of Samar's land, sang in such a way it was like being held against one's mother's chest.

 

Samar stayed one and a half-day; the time for Ide to fully rest and she was gone as soon as her apprentice woke up. Within the following days, Ide tended the man, followed Samar's instructions but methodically cleaning her house, the bandages and inspecting the man's broken bones and scars. She managed to control his fever in such a way that a week after Samar left, the man's body heat was back at what it was; and everyday, she looked at him and wondered about his fine features and his handsome chest. To her, scars only added to a man's strength and she found him quite a fair man.

In spite of the control she had managed to achieve in her household and the man's physical state, Ide could not temper her thirst and every night she slept, stunned by alcohol, stinking ale and sweat. If she could have done it, she would have followed Samar's orders, but old habits died hard and hers were as bound to her as they were satisfying to Ide's mind. Sometimes, she deemed it not that big of a deal and others, she needed it to suffer or stifle it; it was as unbalanced as it was uncontrollable and Ide thanked her mother and herself that she did not grow to be violent, for she would have killed the man in her house had it been the case.

And she resented him, that man. She resented him for his presence here that prevented her from sleeping well, or wandering freely. She resented him for being bound to him by her own choices. She resented him for the evil he might have done and would probably do in the future. She resented him for Samar, for Tom, for her parents and for all the dead of the village. She resented him fro her curse and she resented him for the rest she could not have now.

And yet, all things considered, it had been her choice. She chose to save him to prove herself good, and she desperately wanted to be brave; to save him and herself in the process. One life for a dozen of others, it wasn't much, but to her, it was enough.

Of course, he kept screaming at night, but this time it wasn't the fever anymore, it was nightmares, memories coming from the depth of a man's mind and as he screamed, Ide slept, used to the noise now, with Night as a solace.

And at last, after a week and a half of hardship and effort not to let her demons consume her whole, of tending the knight, the house and her brewing business; after days of uncertainty and anguish; of days of worry, he finally opened his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah! Finally a new chapter!


	3. The awakening

 

With a great deal of doleful whimpers, teeth clenched, and quivering limbs, the man tried to sit on the bed, blinking and panting with a ragged breathing. His lips were dry and he looked famished and dehydrated in spite of Ide's care. Weeks of scarce eating and drinking melted down all his muscles and he was far from a full recovery. It would take another weeks for this man to be what he once was; a knight bred for the battlefield.

Ide gave a sigh of relief. He was back into the world of the living and this put her mind at ease. Now, she considered herself redeemed. And yet still, a part of her wasn't satisfied and she was afraid he would fall, inane, and die. So, in a corner of her mind, Ide swore to take care of him until he could freely wander around or even mount on a horse, run and fight.

He tried to speak but no words came, his tongue and throat too dry for any sound. He frantically looked around and his first instinct was to get up quickly and reach his sword against the wall opposite of him, but as he stood up, he instantly fell to the ground, roaring his pain away while all his body shook from the shock of a new blow. He attempted to crawl towards the sword but he made no move no matter how much he tried to command his body.

Ide sighed, drank a cup of ale and grabbed him beneath his armpits to put him back to bed. He looked at her and all she saw in his eyes was mistrust and fear.

“Don't worry.” she said. “I am not going to hurt you. Why would I have saved you if I were so keen on it?”

Suddenly feeling numb and dizzy, she sat on the stool by the bedside of this man she saved. She looked at him and couldn't help but be disappointed.

His dark green eyes did not shine with vivid life and they appeared haunted, his muscles were almost gone and he was too thin to even be considered a farmer, he was all bony, gaunt; his skin appeared diaphanous to the point his blue veins stood out, and he was covered in bruises and cuts, his complexion almost blue in some parts of his face eaten by a thick and filthy beard.

His scars were still vividly red and he had heavy dark rings under his eyes which sank them a bit more in their eye-socket. If he was handsome when she picked him out of the woods, he was now only a shadow of his former self and some skin painfully flapped in the absence of flesh to fill it. He still was a living corpse, wandering in limbo.

Ide sighed again and shed a tear. “I am sorry.” she quietly sobbed.

The man tried to speak but his mouth was too dry and he hopelessly opened his mouth to communicate some raw husky groans.

Ide nodded and fetched some water for him to drink. She repeated the action a few more times before the man gave a sigh of content, his thirst, quenched.

“Food.” he managed to say.

Ide grinned, glad to hear his voice, as hoarse as it may sound. It was deep; deep like thunder. She prepared gruel for him, with some berries, as she suspected his stomach wasn't ready for something more substantial.

He mistrustfully looked at it, smelled it, then shot Ide a wary glare to which she answered rolling her eyes.

“No poison. See?” she said eating a piece “Now, eat!”

As he ate, Ide watched some pieces of gruel fall on his beard. He would do better trimming this beard and cutting his hair. He did not quite look fresh, and he surely needed a bath, if not to clean his wounds, to get rid of his foul smell that filled the walls not matter how often Ide had let air wipe it out.

He ate a bowl and burped. As soon as he heard it, he pressed his hand on his mouth and flustered at his most uncivil manners.

Ide gave a quick and silent laugh. She took the bowl and cleaned it outside, to let him rest and digest. As she was washing the bowl and the cup he used, she heard a great clattering crash inside the house. Her heart skipped a beat and she ran inside, panicked and desperate, only to find him, yet again on the floor, trying to crawl to his sword and his coat of mail.

Ide gave an annoyed groan and poured herself some strong ale which she gulped with a painful flinch. Damn, that man was annoying! He couldn't stay put could he?

She grabbed him again, thanking her luck he lost so much weight – but regretting the thought a second later – and put him on the bed brutally, making him whimper.

“Had you not tried to stand up and take your sword, you wouldn't hurt!” she groaned.

“Let me go.” he grunted.

“Oh, are you my prisoner? Do you believe so?”

It was then that the black cat Night appeared in the frame of the door, leaving a dead rat there and came to nestle into Ide's arms.

Roland suddenly panicked at such a sight and all his muscles tensed while a cold shiver ran down his spine from fear. Never had he so urgently looked for his weapons. A dagger! There must be a dagger somewhere. He tried to stand up again but failed and fell back on his side.

“You're a witch!” he accused. “You bedeviled me!”

Ide's eyes grew dark at the accusation and Night hissed. She put him back on the floor and locked her pale gray eyes to the man's.

“I healed you. I saved your life instead of letting you feed the crows of the forest, I gave you food and shelter and this is how you repay me? With insults? How uncivil!” she seethed. “Do you have any idea of what you made me go through?” she sighed, growing tired.

“How can I trust you?” he spat. “You fornicate with the devil in this house! I see no sign of our Lord, nor to I find your attire that of a good Christian woman! And this cat! Those herbs! How to explain for all this weirdness? You are a witch! I know it!”

“And you are a killer. Yet, I saved your life and were civil to you.” Ide said, clenching her teeth. “I would appreciate if you could return the courtesy.”

“Let me through, woman! Or I kill you.” he angrily said with his ragged voice, almost a feral grunt.

“You cannot even sit on this bed without collapsing. I'd like to see you try.” Ide said without an inch of amusement.

The man tried to prove her wrong and hoist himself up, but his arms quivered before they yielded under such effort. He gave an angry growl.

“It is your spell! You used your magic against me!”

“If healing and carefully sharpened and improved skill can be called magic, then yes, I am a witch.”

He gave her a confused look. “So you confess?”

“I confess nothing,” she sighed, while fetching some needed ale. “and your fever and loss of blood made you stupid and weak.”

“How dare you insult me you...” he tried to stand up in a quick motion before he gave a doleful whimper and fell back on the bed.

Ide looked at him and drank, on the verge of weeping again. He did not want her help and yet she saved him. It all felt like wasted effort and wasted hopes. She wasn't redeemed; the living did not even want saving from her. Maybe the village was right, maybe she was cursed, maybe she did not belong in the living world, or even in the forest full of mist and ghosts she refused to let go yet. Maybe they were right hating her. Maybe she deserved it. Maybe she did not belong anywhere, but six feet under.

“Undo your spell and let me go.” he groaned.

Ide snapped and her anger rose enhanced by the vapors of alcohol. “Listen!” she brutally said. “I only saved your life! You want to leave? Fine! Then walk out of here without stumbling!”

Roland tried to voice opposition but Ide cut his voice with hers.

“The day you will leave,” she said, heading towards the sword in the corner of the house and unsheathing it. “will be the day you succeed in taking back your sword.” she said walking towards the end of the small clearing in front of her small hut.

Then, she stuck the blade into the soft ground, just under the biggest of trees in this part of the forest which tore whimpers of pain from Roland's mouth.

He tried to stand up and go fetch this sword, but fell back with a groan of anger. This sword followed him all the way back from Jerusalem and had been given to him by a man he respected and wished to impress; a man who gave him what here, he had no right to. This sword had been his source of relief and with it, he had slain countless of men when his former sword shattered, being made of a metal of far worse a quality than that of the blade that was now stuck into the ground by whatever miracle given the woman's thin arms.

Roland flinched, pained. Now the blade would rust and it would grow blunt. He had no doubt she damaged it to the point he would never again manage to defend himself with it.

“Go, now.” she said, coming back. “Go, take the sword and leave.”

Roland glared at her, his eyes darker than ever. “Witch.” he grunted.

Ide sighed and fetched herself some ale she drank, cup after cup, shivering when it was too strong. She sat back next to him, giving him a goblet full of clean water. The man sniffled it, gave it a wary look and worked his hand around the cup without drinking it.

“You screamed in your sleep.” Ide quietly said. “I haven't slept well for days and your fever almost killed you. Your agony almost consumed me. The best you can do to ease my exhaustion is healing. It will take you weeks, perhaps months, but with good food and rest, you will recover.”

“You healed me?” asked Roland before scoffing and wincing, his hands on his ribs. “You? A woman.”

“I did. That is what I do. I heal and patch wounds.”

Roland had a hard time believing a woman could stitch open wounds and remove arrows from a man's body. Only the bravest of men managed to proceed it when he was in Holy Land, and many could not help but hurl when they saw an arrow be pulled out.

“Were you not afraid of blood?”

“Why would I? I have seen blood ever since I became a woman. Tis no different.”

“Take me to a doctor.” Roland said, trying to get up.

“No.” said Ide. “You will stay here. Going to a man healer will take too long and you are yet too weak for such a journey.”

“Call Stephen! If you do not, I will!”

“Stephen? You mean, the sheriff, Stephen?” asked Ide, frowning. “Do you know him?”

Roland rolled his eyes. “Yes, I do. He is a friend. That is, if I still have any friends in this region.” he closed his eyes and re-opened them, a pained expression on his face. “Those who attacked me were no thieves. And they live still. I tried to end them, but they were too many and the best I did was wound them. I hope I succeeded in sending some to Hell.” he closed his eyes, suppressing tears that would not come. “It only means I have been betrayed. Someone wants me dead.”

Ide drank some more, her heart racing his her chest, afraid some harm may befall the forest, thinking about Samar's words, cursing her for being in the right every time. Samar said men wanted him dead, and the man only confirmed it.

“But Stephen can help.” said the man, trying to stand up.

“May I not help you?” asked Ide with concern. “You need to recover. I can help you with that.”

“You?” Roland scoffed. “Certainly not. To be frank I am not sure you do not want me harm.”

“If it is any consolation, I do not trust you either. I know a crusader when I see one and I have heard of those slaughters men of your kind partook in. You could kill me if I saved you and still claim it was in the name of God.” Ide said, colder and angrier.

“There is nothing wrong killing a witch in the name of God.”

“Then your god is unfair and unloving and wants us all dead. Then, if God wants the murder of women and children, he is no God at all, but the devil.” Ide seethed.

“How dare you?” roared Roland, before falling yet again on his back, wincing.

Ide shrugged and drank again. “What's your name?” she asked.

“Do you not know?” asked Roland, frowning in confusion.

“No. That is why I am asking.” said Ide, trying to be patient. “I need to call you by your name if I am to ask you how you feel or if I merely want to see if you are surviving your wounds. And if you die from your wounds, there needs to be a name on your grave.”

“If I tell you my name, then you will use it to bewitch me.” Roland breathed with exhaustion.

Ide chuckled without any joy. “I do not have this kind of power I am afraid. Had I, all would be different.” she stood up and put bowls and cups back to where they belonged and stood for a few seconds, mute and suddenly melancholic in front of an embroidery that was once her pride which represented Christ and his mother. She sighed. “Then, I will call you Lazarus.”

“Lazarus?” scoffed the man with a hint of admiration. “So you do know God.”

Ide closed her eyes and gently followed the threads of the embroidery with her fingertips. “Once, I did. But it was long ago.” she turned to him, resolute in her grief. “Now rest. You need some sleep. I will watch over you.” she said, deeming that he had been awake for far too long and that too much stimuli was dangerous for a full recovery.

Roland gave her a leery look and frowned. If she wanted to kill him, then, she would do it while he was asleep. By no means should he sleep. By no means would he give her any opening to slit his throat or poison him, such as it was the way with women. The best warriors he knew suffered this dishonorable death. He would not give her satisfaction.

Ide looked at him and caught his gaze, measuring the extent of his distrust. She sighed again and prepared some herbs with water to help him drift to sleep. The hand that carried the bowl nearly grazed his mouth and Ide shivered at the realization that his breath smelled foul but was warm enough to chase the cold of her fingers. She shivered once more, uneasy – or rather pleased – when a minuscule part of his dry lips touched her skin. Electrifying.

At first, he refused to drink what she presented him, firmly closed his mouth and turned his head, but Ide, having none of that took his chin in her hands and turned his face to hers with a strength he witnessed but never wished to believe in. It had been too easy and Roland cursed his weakened state that did not allow him any resistance from this enchantress, and he was compelled to drink as something in the eyes of the woman above him told him that if he refused, there would be pain.

Reluctantly, he closed his eyelids which strangely became too heavy to even lift, and floated, semiconscious until all that remained was a blank void and the room around him faded from his perception.

 

He was awoken in the middle of the night, half-sleeping, by a great and clattering sound in the house, and, saw, confused and blurry, the witch that saved him fallen on the floor, a pint in her hand, weeping and vomiting in a corner of the room. He saw her, crouched, her long black hair framing like a dark and confused veil of filth and barf, all tangled and clearly unwashed. He saw her take that cloth she touched before and clung to it like her life depended on it, cradling it back and forth like she would a child, whispering some tender words with a dulcet voice. It was dark, and the sight offered to a half-conscious Roland was that of madness. It was dreadful; but not as horrifying as that which followed.

She rose her face to him, as feeling his sense were coming back, and his heart suddenly iced in his chest while cold shivers ran down his spine. When she looked at him, her gray eyes were as pale as a white shroud and there was no sign of life.

Roland tried to move away, to escape horror and that vision that seemed straight out of Hell, but he couldn't escape the wall and she stepped closer, her breathing husky and guttural like she came out of a grave.

She came closer, smelling of the dead, her face pale, her eyes white and her allure that of a living corpse in the dead of the night in the forest covered with a deathly white mist; a ghost of all the slain. Roland gave a scream of terror before he passed out on the bed, inane, drowning in a cloth of cold sweat.

When he woke up for good the next day, the sun was already shining high in the sky, and the shadows of the trees around almost stuck to the trunks. It was a good day, not too hot, nor too cold. Roland shivered. He was cold and smelled. He suddenly remembered the dread of the night and frantically looked around in search for a weapon and looking for the witch. He found her nowhere but heard outside a sound that looked like that of a woman fetching water in a well – if a well it was, that deep in the forest – and found near him a bowl of gruel and an apple.

He gauged the apple, reminded that it was the fruit of temptation, and judged it would be somewhat a sin to eat it, but gave a much more benevolent look at the gruel which seemed to him as a godsend good in the desert. His stomach suddenly growled, and he drooled. Hunger prevailed over cautiousness and he took the bowl which he emptied in so short an amount of time it was almost clean when she came back into the house.

She nodded to him and briefly smiled politely before she put a bucket of water near the bed. As she sat on the stool, Roland brutally moved away, still shocked by what he confusedly saw that night.

“Bend over.” she ordered. “I need to clean your bedsheets. And I must change your bandages. Come on!”

She looked completely different from what she was at night. She smelled of fresh roses, of pine-sap and her complexion seemed much pinker. Her long curly black hair was clean of any filth and smelled as entrancing as her skin. Roland almost shivered. She was fresh, as fresh as the most beautiful of rose, and it terrified him. What was a woman that who was able to be a corpse at night and a maiden during the day? He shivered once more, this time, not from pleasure, but of fear.

He smelled her once more and was slightly reassured when he noticed the same old stench of alcohol in her mouth, which meant she must have been drinking in the morning. But as he looked closer, Roland saw that her gray eyes were just as before, lifeless, hollowed of any spark. It seemed as if she could never smile.

“Here.” she said, giving him a long white linen shirt. “It is clean and will be much more comfortable than those rags I found you dressed in. Come on, undress, now, so I can clean you.” she ordered, fetching some linens.

“Undress?” said Roland flabbergasted. “In front of a woman who is not a servant, my mother or a wife? Certainly not!”

“I saw you in the nude once when I removed your mail coat and those nasty arrows from your limbs. There is nothing that I do not know about your body. Come now, be reasonable.”

“I'd rather do it myself.” he said before falling back on the bed, exhausted. “Not again.” he groaned.

Ide sighed one of those Roland knew now meant she was going to force her care upon him, and was humiliated when she turned him over like a mere puppet, managed to control his limbs so that she could work his rags off his body, and sat him still on the bed while she removed his filthy and smelly bandages. She wrinkled her nose, not at all happy about the smell, but gave a satisfied sigh when she saw the wounds were healing well, even if she was still wary of gangrene.

Roland tried to contain his rage. He butchered fearless warriors in Holy Land, fought beside men greater of name and wealth than him, took cities and women, was noticed by kings and princes; and now, he was effortlessly manipulated like a mere bag of feathers by a woman who was no stronger than a farmer.

He let her work around his body, irate, watched as she carefully applied some paste on his wounds and gently wrapped it into fresh clothes; and flustered, he almost choked as she washed his legs, his back, his chest and his face – she did not clean his inner-leg though, which he was grateful for.

Each of her touches on his skin, of her lingering fingers on his wounds gave him goosebumps and Roland shivered with a most shameful delight. Each contact of her skin was a spell bound to enthrall him to stay. Roland hated it. It was true. He was right. She was a witch. And as a crusader and a servant of the Christ, his duty was to resist temptation, such as Christ would have.

Then, she dressed him and changed the bedsheets and that was about it. She left, her hands full and came back empty-handed. She looked at the bowl, then, gave him some water which he greedily drank driven by a maddening thirst.

“My name is Ide.” she said. “May I know yours? Or are you truly Lazarus?”

Roland capitulated. He was already doomed anyway. “My name is Roland.”

She nodded a greeting and left him once more to rest and doze. When she came back, the shadows of the trees were slightly longer and Roland deduced it was not yet late in the afternoon. She was sweeping the floor with a broom and Roland was slightly afraid, as her figure looked now more that of a witch.

“You slept for a long time.” she said, feeling him awakening. “It has been a day. You screamed.” she said it with a hint of sadness and pain which Roland noticed but chose to ignore.

“A day? Truly? It rather seems a few hours.” Roland muttered. His stomach gurgled to give confirmation and she handed him another bowl of gruel to which she added a piece of bread and some berries. His meals, it seemed, were more and more substantial. Soon, he would eat roasted meat again. His stomach rumbled again, aroused by the idea.

“Time slowly loses its meaning when in limbo here. It feels as if you are drifting in another world that is not like yours and where time is fickle. I has been a day; and you screamed.” she pointed out again.

“Did I?” Roland asked with a faked confusion, hiding those dreadful nightmares he still was shocked of; those which seemed real even after one woke up.

“I tried to soothe it and numb the pain, but you wouldn't let me.” she said, lifting up her long sleeve, showing a red mark on her wrist which was shaped like fingers.

Roland's heart iced in his chest and regret took him. So he hurt a woman of his own land; he was no different now from those Saracens who raided his country long ago, or from thieves and men of low condition. So he was truly as monstrous as a beast – not that he had any doubts of it after the crusade.

Suddenly, his heart tightened in his chest that cut his breath and he panted, out of air, trying desperately to breathe, drowning in a sea that was far from the deep forest. He shook on his bed, trying to voice a scream that never came, opening and closing his mouth, frothing, covered in sweat, his eyes rolling in their eye-socket.

Ide looked at him, panicked, and immediately put her hands on his chest, whispering soothing words to calm him down. Her cold hands on his burning skin was to him a shock great enough to numb the storm that took him and he started to relax, and breathed normally again. Then, when he was no longer panting, Ide gave him the food, a cup of water and another beverage that would make him sleep more.

“You need some more rest.” she said, pouring herself ale and drinking a few cups. “Eat and drink.”

Roland gave her a look and saw tears forming in the corner of her eyes. Guilt spoke and he ate what she gave him while praying to God, Christ and all the Saints for their protection against magic. His stomach was satisfied and he dozed off to sleep. If he was to escape the witch, the best he could do was to recover quickly.

He woke up again, after what seemed a few minutes, but realized it was the morning from the chirping of birds outside, the light and the fresh air that was not yet warmed by the summer's sun. The woman was in a corner of the house, sitting on a spartan bed made of several layers of cloth, straw and a plank of wood, gently petting a black cat with a red mouth from giving chase to rats and mice.

She glanced at him and stood up. “There is food for you on the stool. I cleaned your wounds, changed the bandages and the bed while you were asleep.”

Roland looked beside him to find berries, gruel - yet again - honey, bread and water. His stomach gurgled and he took it as a sign to start eating, not without praying first.

“Did I scream again?” he asked while eating.

Ide gave a brief smile. “No.” she breathed. “The beverage I gave you repelled nightmares and closed the door of your dreams to any evil. You were silent and peaceful.”

“The beverage? You poisoned me?”

Ide rolled her eyes. “No. I didn't. I do not kill. I do not...” then, suddenly, she stopped and her eyes lost themselves into a sad void.

She did not kill but she brought death by her mere presence. Maybe Roland was in the right. Maybe she was a witch, cursed, that would bring harm upon him. She sniffled and wiped a tear from her eyes as an old reflex, although her eyes were dry. It suddenly seemed she would collapse and let herself be eaten alive by the floor, the ground and the depths of the earth. At the moment, all she wanted was to suffer and die, to collapse and vanish.

She drank a cup of strong ale to chase the thought and she looked at him. Maybe she shouldn't leave. If men came and saw him, they would kill him. But if she didn't, they would starve and he was dead all the same. Maybe if she closed the door and he was silent there would be no one to suspect a wounded knight was in the house, but clearly, the sword gave away hints of a presence.

“What was that?” asked Roland, confused by her sudden mute and melancholy state.

“Eat up.” she said before she went outside, closing the door.

She took the sword, and went to bury it under barrels of mead and ale she brewed last winter, when everything was still bitter, sour and dead, while suffering and hollowness still reigned everywhere, from the forest to the catatonic village.

When she came back, he was done eating. Ide couldn't trust him to stay quiet. He was yet still too wary of her and he would yell for help. She was loath to use it again, for it would bring dependence to him, but only the sleep beverage could grant her his silence and therefore, his protection.

She handed him a goblet filled with that precious liquid. “Drink, now.”

“No.” said Roland.

Ide gave a saddened smile, forced his mouth open and poured the drink down his throat he was compelled to swallow.

He gave her a wrathful and hateful stare that pierced her heart like a thousand poisoned arrows. It was for his own good, she tried to convince herself of. It was for his own good.

As he dozed off to sleep, Ide left the house and set off to the village, taking her purse, a few barrels of her finest ale and mead to sell to inns and taverns and a few jars of honey. She considered stopping by Samar's house, farther into the forest to tell her the man had awoken, but it would make her journey longer and she couldn't afford to be away from Roland more than she was planning. She also considered to go and visit her sister Mary, but she suspected that with two children, she would be far too busy to even talk to her. The life of a mother was that of many sacrifices. At least, Mahaut was not yet married, and Ide gave a smile of genuine joy thinking about the idea of visiting her.

The forest was fresh and warm in the morning, and the soft breeze that made trees sing was as soothing as a motherly caress. It was a good day; but Ide was blind to it, guilt being a black veil that darkened everything; and her sadness grew the closer she walked to that village that dared living.

After what seemed ages, she came across Joseph's house, near the inn, for it was there Mahaut dwelt ever since their father died in the plague, a year ago. Ide released the handles of her cart and knocked at the door. Joseph opened and he gave a gentle smile, seemingly happy to see her in spite of the mean stares Ide was given from those who wandered in the streets, wary, hateful, angered by her presence in the village, she, the witch they thought was the reason behind the plague as well as Samar.

Joseph politely greeted her, asked her why she had come and Ide showed the barrels behind her, as well as the honey. Joseph gave it a look and decided to purchase the honey, but not the mead and ale he took anyway to relief Ide of her burden. Once the trade done, Ide asked to enter the house to see Mahaut and was granted satisfaction.

She was in a room, away from the rest of the family; Joseph's wife Elisa, their two first sons, Joseph's mother and his younger sister who was not yet in age to marry. Ide saw her, crouched on her bed, holding her stomach, visibly in pain. Ide searched the bag of herbs she took and noticed a few she could use to numb the pain. She prepared a tea and gave it to her friend who took it greedily with eyes filled with gratitude.

Ide sat beside her, holding her hand. “Good morning.” she said with a smile. “I see they put you away.”

“They're afraid Joseph will faint if he sees blood.” Mahaut joked, clenching her teeth. “I hate this period of the month. You're lucky.”

Ide went silent and mournful. She touched her empty womb and gave a sad sigh.

“I am sorry.” said Mahaut, looking at her with pity. “I did not mean it.”

“I know. You are inconvenienced and I not. Twas only envy speaking.”

Mahaut gave a smile to which Ide answered with another. “So Joseph took all but the ale? How much do you have now?”

“Not enough for a month alone, that is for sure. And I need more wheat, hop and barley. I need bread, I need oats, I need clothes.” Ide counted, helpless.

“A month alone? Is Samar staying with you? Is she fine?” asked Mahaut with concern.

Ide went hesitant. She did not know if Mahaut could be trusted with her secret that a knight was healing home. The men who attacked him might still be looking.

“Samar is fine. I just need more for personal reasons.” she said, trying not to look at Mahaut in the eyes, as she knew her enough to see she was lying.

“Personal reasons!” Mahaut gave a sigh and seemed to relax, eased by Ide's healing. “I feel much better. You should come here more often.”

“You know I won't.” sighed Ide.

“Yes, I know that.” said Mahaut with tenderness, holding both her hands, her eyes filled with undying love. “It will take you much more time than I to heal. In the meantime, please, I beg you, stop drinking.”

Ide breathed and smelled it. “It's alright. I am fine.”

“Mar...” Mahaut began.

“No!” suddenly shouted Ide. “Do not call me by that name.” she continued, calmer. “I gave it up long ago.”

Mahaut looked down, visibly pained, but after half a second, she looked up again and played a joyful smile. “Say Ide, did I tell you the good news?”

“What good news?” What good news could there possibly be in this world that sought to kill everything good?

“The negotiations for my wedding are back! The merchant came back here a month ago and he spoke to Joseph, asking to see our father, but things being what they are, Joseph was put in charge as the head of the family and now he is in charge of marrying me off. His son still talks about me. How is that? He lives in Paris Ide! You hear? Paris! And there is talk of him moving to London in a few years. I heard he had an appointment with the king. Isn't that great?” said Mahaut with a forced excitement.

“That is good, yes.” said Ide, not hiding her sorrow. If Mahaut was to marry, then she would leave far away, far away from her, and Ide would be alone, and nothing would await her here if not her sister and memories of the dead.

Ide looked at Mahaut and a silent understanding passed between the two women and silently, they wept, holding tight on one-another, desperate in their embrace.

“Oh Ide!” moaned Mahaut. “I am so sorry.”

“Don't.” whispered Ide. “I want you to be happy, Mahaut. I need it.” she tried to convince herself.

Mahaut wiped off her tears. “I will tell Mary you need food. She will provide.”

“She always does.” said Ide smiling. “Thank you.” she murmured.

“And once I am done with bleeding, I will visit you with a rabbit or two, and bags of grains, and everything you need.” Mahaut said, holding tight on Ide's hand.

“I love you.” said Ide with a genuine smile.

Mahaut gave a grin and called her mother, asked her to give some supplies for Ide, which Ide insisted on paying. Her mother nodded, and went to comply to her daughter's request with a wary glare towards Ide.

“She still thinks I am a witch?” asked Ide, with a thought for Roland.

“Alas! You know my mother; she is all devout and uptight, clear in her Christian beliefs.”

“Are you not like this too?” asked Ide with an obvious knowing stare.

“You know me.” laughed Mahaut. “I'd rather die than resemble my mother. Your skills are far too precious to me. By the way, would you mind leaving some of your beverage here? It feels needed.”

“You wouldn't know how to prepare them.” Ide said.

Mahaut pouted but gave a smile right after. Then, they talked about Joseph's children, how fast they grew, how strong they were; of his wife who was pregnant yet again, of Mary and her blacksmith of a husband, their children and their love that seemed eternal and still burned like the greatest fire. They spoke of flowers, plants, of Samar and her health, of how lonely Ide was in the forest, of the life there and of Mahaut hunting there whenever she could and of how much they missed each other these pas few weeks.

“There was something interesting that happened three days ago.” said Mahaut.

“What?” asked Ide with curiosity.

“Three men came in the village, asking about a man. They knocked on every door. They were very eager on finding him and from their clothes, I knew they were from our lord's guard. They kept looking; in every barrel, in every bed, even in the attic and grain stocks. I was told they roamed the forest for days looking for him. I wonder who is that knight they are looking for and what he did for them to be that threatening.”

A cold shiver suddenly ran down Ide's spine and cold sweat started to drip on her forehead while her ears rang.

“Are they still looking?” she asked, clumsily hiding her fear.

“Why, yes, I think. They did not find him. I have been told they still roam the forest. They might come soon to your door or Samar's. You know, I am worried about her. Maybe they'll kill her out of superstition.”

Ide's heart sank and she felt herself weak suddenly. She had to grip Mahaut's bed not to fall. “I have to leave.” she said, panicked. “I need to leave.”

“What? Why? Ide...”

“Now!” she stood up.

She grabbed her bag, placed a kiss on Mahaut's forehead hastily and ran out of the room without hearing Mahaut's pleas to enlighten her about her sudden worry, without hearing anything but blood pulsing in her temples. In a second state, she grumbled a vague good-bye to Joseph's family, left the house, took her cart she did not see was filled with supplies and began to run, absolutely terrified, out of the village, towards the forest, not paying attention to the insults she was given from the villagers.

And in the forest, Ide ran, desperately trying to forget the pain in her side, her racing thundering heart she could almost see trying to break out of her ribs, trying to forget her thirst, her hunger, everything if not the path home. She ran, ran, ran, gripping her cart, flying above the ground, carried by the wind and the urge to protect Roland who would certainly be killed if those who were looking for him came into the house. At the moment, fear controlled her entirely, and she almost heard voices nearby which only added to the distress she was in. And she ran faster, to reach home and protect that half-dead man she found weeks ago.

 

Roland woke up, his sight all blurry and confused, in the dark house. He blinked several times, sighed and held his dizzy head, still tired and lost in time. Was it night? Day? Morning or evening? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he slept for a long time, and that the house was dark and closed.

His eyes growing accustomed to the dark of the stifled house, he looked around and saw the witch nowhere, nor her cat, probably hunting mice, rats and crows. That was, if a witch's cat would chase a witch's bird. Roland looked around, trying to find anything he could use as a weapon. He saw a knife on a chest and tried to stand up to take it, but failed, his limbs still numbed by the potion. A sudden gale of wind blew, slightly opening the door, and Roland saw that it was late in the afternoon, from the red reflection of the sun between the trees.

It was so red, so menacing, that Roland almost felt himself drift to fear and madness. Suddenly, memories struck him; memories of ripped limbs, severed heads, half-eaten corpses, blood and battlefield. At the moment, the forest strangely resembled one of those pools of blood he once bathed in, and those slaughters he partook in in the name of God.

Roland closed his eyes, his heart thumping in his ribs. “God is my king. God's arms my home. God dwells here.” he muttered. “All is well. All is well.” he tried to convince himself.

He tried to picture his mother, his father, his brother and sisters beside him but a dark feeling lingered in his core; an anticipation for a battle to arise and for more suffering to be brought upon him. He tried to picture his wet-nurse and Stephen, her son and best friend, but the feeling stuck, impregnating his soul, his heart and his mind. He tried to picture Enguerrand, his sworn-brother, the man he loved the most in the entire world, but failed again, and wept at the thought of what he let happen to him.

Guilt added to the lingering paranoia and Roland felt himself suddenly mad. He wanted to stand up, to ravage and burn the house and himself with it and be done with life. He wanted fury. He wanted death. He wanted to kill or drown himself in his own sorrow.

“God,” he whispered, tears in the corner of his eyes. “For all that is good in this world, oh mighty God, protect me of your demons. Protect me of mine and ease my pain. Deliver me from evil and let your will be true.”

Roland sobbed, conjuring God's name, howled and screamed in the empty forest. He needed to get out of that dangerous house where he was kept prisoner. He needed to get out and return to his family and betrothed. He needed to escape evil and that woman with her entrancing hands and long black hair.

He began to scream, calling for help. He put all his strength in his voice and roared, howled, shook the trees, the birds and moss, his voice reverberating across the whole country. He screamed and screamed until his voice was ragged and used, and heard footsteps approaching.

He gave a sob of relief and kept begging for aid, as the heavy footsteps came closer, closer to the hut. He kept screaming and screaming, lost his voice; and the footsteps were now at the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a long one (as usual lol) I hope you'll enjoy!


	4. In the name of God

 

When Ide arrived home, her blood finished to ice in her veins. The door was slightly open and Roland yelled for help. Ide's world started to spin around her and she had to master her feet to keep walking. She hastily dropped the cart and ran inside, panicked at the idea that those who wounded Roland were back to finish the job with poisons Ide had never healed or heard about for all that. She couldn't let him die. It would cost her the shreds of life that remained.

Fear controlled everything, from her racing heart, to her mind that jumped to every bad outcomes. Roland still called for help, his voice desperate and begging. Ide opened the door to find him, alone, on the bed, still yelling for help.

With an angry stride, Ide came beside the bed and Roland suddenly shut up and looked at her with frustration. He looked as if all his hopes had been shattered. He looked at her in silence, and yelled more at once, calling for aid.

Ide snapped and brutally pressed her hand to his mouth which she held closed firmly, stifling any sounds he could make if not whimpers. Roland gave her a look and tried to bite, or lick, to make her let go, but Ide was adamant in her endeavor, and Roland's attempts were doomed to fail.

“For Christ sake!” she angrily whispered, using His name to compel him to obey. “Shut it!”

Roland gave a frustrated groan and Ide gave him a look full of ire. If Roland would not shut it, she considered hitting him with something.

“The men who attacked you are still looking out for you. I heard they roam the forest to kill you. Now shut it before they find you!” Ide explained with authority.

He gulped and carefully listened with her, paying attention to every sounds of the forest, looking for a specific and familiar sound of men walking, weapons tied to their waists. Once she realized Roland was not going to scream again, Ide carefully removed her hand to let him inhale sharply but put a finger in front of her mouth to order him to be silent.

Roland understood the necessity of that silence, especially if what she said was true and people were indeed roaming the forest to end him once and for all.

After a few minutes of intense listening, Ide finally let go of her grip on Roland's mouth and gave a long sigh of relief. If not for birds, brewing storms and wind, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary in the forest. It was as calm as always.

“Your breath smells of ale.” grumbled Roland.

Ide gave an annoyed sigh and looked away, made sad and miserable by Roland's words. “Ale is safer than water anyway. For people like me, at least. Men like you are raised in luxury and when you are not, you benefit from it. Money people will always favor those they can pay to defend them rather than the small folk like me and those people in the village.”

“The village? There is a village nearby?” asked Roland. “Is there a manor? An abbey?”

Ide gave him a puzzled look. Why did he care? “The village is far from here. We are not that deep into the forest, but still, it takes me hours of walking to get there. And even then, the manor is far away, behind a hill and behind hours of fields. The abbey, you passed it, I believe, before those men attacked you. What did you see on your way here?”

“I saw fields and a few villages.” he said, with his hoarse voice.

“Was the church there destroyed?”

“I think so, yes.” he said.

“Then you passed a neighboring village to ours. Tis but a small town, now, and once the church gone, men and women came here to live and die from diseases and plagues, to hear of God to feel like they still belonged to the living. Only the farmers remained, but far from any manor, any castle and any defense, separated from God by a forest, they shall not dwell there long.” Ide said, bustling to prepare some tea for Roland's voice. “Why do you care?”

“None of your business.” said Roland, stern and scornful.

Ide shrugged. “Drink this if you want to yell some more. Let me warn you though, I will not be able to defend your weak and wretched body from killers.”

Roland gave her a look full of hatred before he bitterly drank the tea she gave him. She gave a smile, but he could see how weak it was and how sad she appeared. He could see, despite her determination, that she was defeated. Her attitude was not that of a triumphant warrior, such as she should have been towards a man who did what she ordered him to do, but of a weakening foe. Oddly, Roland resented himself for making her feel that way. He knew she was a witch, but still, her face remained that of a woman and she resembled those women he had slept with in Holy Land and those he made suffer with his sword.

And in her eyes, he saw a bit of him; him who was solace and love, and him who was always there to hear his thoughts and share his burden. Him, he saw die on the battlefield and him, whose death had been the deepest blow he had ever suffered.

His ears began to ring, his heart started to race in his ribs, cold sweats rolled over his face and he started to lack of air. He gasped, panted, drowning as he recalled those violent deeds, the blood, guts, shattered heads, brains, the meat... the meat... He suddenly gagged, about to vomit whatever was in his stomach, and twisted in the bed, as though he had been taken by something.

“The... the drink...” he choked. “Poison!”

“Nonsense.” Ide said, unsuccessfully masking the distress in her voice. “Calm down!”

Roland shook his head and choked on his breath, and seemed as though he was strangled. For a moment, he stopped moving entirely and seemed almost dead, frothing, almost biting off his tongue.

“Roland!” Ide screamed with an urgent terror. “Roland!”

She hastily placed a piece of leather in his mouth, listened to his breathing and tried as much as she could to revive his body. He was oppressed, she could feel it. He was tense and she doubted anything could to against it. He could not drink, he could not eat. He could barely breathe.

A shock. That was what he needed. Ide pressed her lips on his and took his breath in hers. Her hands roamed his chest, tracing lines to make his blood flow back the way it should and she hummed in his lips and tried as much as she could to erase her stress to soothe his.

Roland suddenly gasped for air and Ide withdrew. He panted, but he breathed.

“It was a big one.” he muttered for himself.

He turned to Ide and saw that she was about to collapse on the floor and crouch herself somewhere. “Don't you ever do that to me again.” she yelled, her voice barely controlled, barely human. “Never! Not in my house!”

Then, she turned away, and left the house. She came back after hours, soaked, cold and exhausted. She was filthy and smelled with ale. She could hardly walk without stumbling and told herself nonsense to stay grounded, while she laughed from time to time and gagged here and there, swallowing back whatever was in her throat. Roland had never seen a scene that pathetic.

She fell on her couch, and stared at him. She smiled a smile that belonged only to madmen or grieving widows. “You.” she said, pointing her finger at him. “You're a pain. You're a fucking pain. You know that, huh? You fucking son of a bitch. You are a pain to me and a burden. You stinky bastard.” she burped. Suddenly, she seemed sadder. “No.” she said, nodding. “I am the burden. I am the stinky bastard and I should have died. Yes. I should be dead, no? All things would be better? What say you?” she asked Roland.

Roland was speechless. Nothing he could say seemed to fit, but a frown of confusion.

“Yeah I am a pain. I should not exist.” she started weeping. “I should not exist. If I were not there... If I were dead all things would be better. No pain, no sorrow, just happiness. And nothing for me. And nothing but rest. And I would be dead. I want to be dead. Living is too painful.” she cried, sobbing on her couch. “I want to be dead.” she whispered before she passed out.

Roland stared at her, blankly, transfixed at that scene, so different, so much more human than the last time he saw her, that night she appeared like a ghost, lingering to the living world. He had never seen any woman behave in such a fashion in front of him and her sudden state of weakness gave him shivers of shame, but of wariness also. After all, the devil took so many shapes and each one was appealing to good Christians, only to deceive them later. This woman was a witch; he had to bear that in mind.

But was he any better? Was he as just and righteous as he should be? That woman cried because of him, she cried because he screamed and if he discarded prejudice, Roland fathomed she was scared for him and wanted him only to get better.

And there were those nightmares... those nightmares coming from hell and everything rotten in the world; those dark visions of horror, of lust, sin, murder, chaos and heinousness; those visions of blood being spilled, the taste of flesh, the squalls of women. In those he drowned and among the demons, when the savages turned their head to judge him, it was his face that looked at him.

His hands were still soiled with blood, and his teeth still reeked of flesh. He murdered, he feasted among the crows in an abhorrent revelry; he slept with women who refused their bodies to him or any man they deemed soaked with the blood of their husbands, he took cities and treasures from the poor he thought beneath humanity based on the name they were praying to and took food from the needy. He did it in the name of God, of Christ, in the land he once roamed. And what he did, he now began to think it a disgrace, a blasphemy. If she was a witch, he was a monster.

Ide snored beside him, but Roland couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep alone and falling asleep took him hours, now; and his pride binded him from asking Ide the sleep potion, for he now realized how useful it had been. Roland was tired, but Roland couldn't sleep. Sleeping would mean dreaming, and his dreams would lead him to all the demons of hell that were him. Sleeping was torture and he had but a small tolerance to that.

So instead, he stayed awake in the darkening house, listening to Ide's chaotic sleep beside her, to the hooting of owls, the sound of Night fighting other cats, water flowing in a trickle somewhere in the forest, of the trees dancing in the evening breeze. And amidst that peace, Roland's mind raced and torture found him again, crawling from the realm of dreams to his awaken state, to roam and linger in his mind and keep him from savoring the peaceful night.

Was he a true follower of Christ if what he did in His name defied his deeds in the Scripture? Was he truly as good a man he thought he was? Was he right? Was God truly there? Did he still linger on the world or was he gone? Would he be rewarded for his actions in Heaven, or was he doomed to walk down to Hell where he would meet the familiar faces of the demons haunting his nights?

Roland shed a tear. He knew the answer. For his actions, there would be no Heaven; only an eternity of damnation. Christ did not approve of murderers, of thieves, traitors and sinners, of zealots. Christ was the friend of the poor, of the mistreated, of the weak, of the oppressed. Christ was love and so far, Roland had spread but hatred and sorrow.

For him, it was damnation and his time was but short on Earth and men sought to kill him. Soon, he would live the nightmares and he would for ever until all that would remain of him would be his name which would disappear with the wind. Roland was doomed. He had no sons, no legacy, nothing, only a brother, sisters, friends in Syria and a betrothed he hadn't seen for a few years. All he had was dead friends, deep wounds and broken bones. Bones told no story. Bones disappeared.

Roland was doomed. Was it not a reason to enjoy life the fullest before the great torture? Wasn't it a reason to recover from his wounds and live his life as peacefully as he could? Was it not a reason to keep on living in the hope of redeeming himself for his actions and sow peace? Roland was tired of fighting. Roland was tired of killing. Roland wanted peace and Roland wanted righteousness. Roland wanted Christ and His path only led to love.

He would live, that, he was certain of, and he would soothe his actions, follow Christ's example and free himself from evil, from this house he was stranded into and from the temptress witch sleeping in a corner, wetting her bed with silent tears.

And in the silence of the night, Roland joined her weeping with warm tears of shame, of despair, of regrets, of hope.

 

Over the next few days, Roland's state considerably improved, and slowly, he regained the flesh he lost when he was still unconscious. He had been in Ide's house for more than a month, now, which major part was spent in silence from his part and in anguish on hers, all until his awakening and the distrust he showed towards his savior. Despite his slow recovery, Ide was worried when she noted he couldn't sleep without her medicine, and all the more so when she noticed he often refused it and spent his nights awake, twisting in his bed restlessly as though he was about to stand up – not that he could at the moment – and leave instantly. Ide worried he might worsen his condition, and at night, she tried to numb his restlessness with songs she hummed from her corner of the house.

Still, Roland was not yet able to walk and wield a sword for all that. He could barely stand still and each second spent standing up gave him an alarming shaking in the legs, although his bones were strengthening and his wounds grew into big pale scars.

Ide was relieved, but old habits died hard and she would drink at night or when he wasn't looking to soothe her pain and the dreadful feeling that something terrible was gonna happen. Men still were looking for him, and Ide would soon be out of supplies and she couldn't leave him unprotected while he was still weak and recovering. Her feet were rooted to where he was and she felt as trapped as a deer on a hunt. She couldn't move, she almost couldn't breathe; and this was too much for her and she felt so anxious her heart seemed as though he would thump into her ribcage with the power of a thousand stallions for all eternity.

If she left for food, she left him as a gift for predation, and if she stayed, she condemned him to death by starvation – herself too in the process, which she didn't mind anyway. In both stories they died. She felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders and it was too much for a shattered woman to bear.

There was nothing she could do, but drink and hope for the best; numb her anguish and ease his pain.

“You should stop this.” said Roland, one dim morning in spite of a crushing heat. “Your foul breath is killing me.”

“I didn't ask for your opinion on what I do. I am what I am and what I am can handle this.” Ide retorted.

“And what are you, witch?” snarled Roland.

“A woman. That is all.” said Ide, a cup of ale in her hand. “I am also she who brought you back. And one day I hope to be dust.” melancholy was imprinted on her face and she never had appeared more hopeful.

The bells of Sunday rang in the distance. Roland gave a sigh and joined his hands in prayer. “It is Sunday.” he said. “We should pray.”

Ide rolled her eyes. “You pray. I take care of my business. Ale does not brew itself and so much has to be done. Idleness is fit for rich men and wealthy girls. Women have matters to tend to.”

“Must you disrespect God during His day?” Roland groaned with annoyance.

Ide shrugged and left the house to its single man and his feeble prayers. Let him pray whoever he believed in. To Ide, there was no God but one and His name was pain. Even Samar's old gods and goddesses couldn't find their ways into her faith. God was dead and nothing awaited; nothing but an endless void and rest at last.

Ide looked away, towards the village, towards the church and closed her eyes, trying to picture Mary and Mahaut there, praying, being happy or whatever. She thought about them and it gave her solace, even more so when Night decided to rub his fur at her feet and purr at her mere presence. A warm shiver ran down her spine, uncomfortable and sweet. Was it peace? Or a longing for what she had desired her entire former life.

She missed them. She missed her sister and Mahaut, and she also missed Samar. It was when she was alone that she truly realized how grateful she was for their friendship. And it was then that she regretted the way she often treated them, pushing them away when she needed them, not responding when they needed her. She had said something truly terrible to Mary a few months ago and she still felt the sizzling qualm of guilt thinking about it. That was what she was; a woman incapable of making someone happy. There was nothing she provided but pain and suffering. She was sorrow's chosen one.

She heard Roland pray to his god all day, asking for forgiveness for his sins, begging for escape and protection against herself. His distrust was to her a doleful blow and each of his words towards her made her think that she shouldn't be alive and that the world would be far better without her. Even when she practiced life she brought pain. Maybe she wasn't made for the things of happiness after all. Maybe she was just born for suffering.

She was useless. A useless healer, a useless brewer, a useless friend, a useless sister, a useless woman. She was better off discarded.

From time to time she brought him food to eat; each times more substantial to strengthen his health; and to her she provided nothing but ale. Eating would only keep her alive and that was not what she wanted. He was the one to remain alive, not a useless rag like her.

She spent the day cleaning her house, the warehouse she brew her ale in, tending her business and she even started to dig a hole in the ground to build a cave for her barrels of ale. She only stopped to tend Roland's wounds and feed him. It seemed that bustling around was the only thing that could soothe her mood, and at the end of the day, she drank herself to sleep and she never slept so well.

She was awoken by loud knocks on the door and her heart started racing in her chest. They found them! They had been found by the killers and now they were there to kill them. She looked at Roland, panicked, only to be answered with the same look of terror as he tried to stand up and take his sword; only to remember thereafter that his sword was in the forest and that he had no weapons to fight back but a little knife. They were trapped. They were dead. Cold sweat rolled down their forehead as they waited for death to take them both.

“Ide, child, I know you are here!” Samar yelled behind the door. “Get up and stop sleeping you lazy girl!”

Ide's heart seemed as if it froze. The relief she felt following the terror was too intense for its own good. She gave a loud breathe and panted to get some air. “Samar.” she said.

Roland was still scared, though, and Ide's sudden relief did not ease his. Who knew what other evil was behind the door?

Ide went to open to Samar and Roland, in a moment of panic tried to stop her, only to wince and lie back on the bed, frustrated.

When she opened, another happy surprise awaited her when she recognized Mahaut behind Samar, happily holding two rabbits in her hand, her bow and arrows on her back.

“I found Samar en route to your house this morning. I bring the food my mother promised, two rabbits I caught this morning, and bread, money and grain from Mary. She wanted to come but her husband wanted her by his side even more so considering her soon-to-be-born child. You know him, always so possessive.” she said, rolling her eyes.

Ide peered back into the house and gave Roland a look. She couldn't let Mahaut in. If she saw him, she was a witness and if she asked her to keep the secret, she would be killed. She couldn't do that to her. She needed to push her away.

“Let us in, now.” Samar said without an ounce of patience.

“No!” Ide said, blocking the door. “If Mahaut comes in, then...”

“Tell me I stink, that'll be quicker.” said Mahaut, vexed.

Ide gave a sigh, trying to suppress tears. “I... Samar I can't let her in...”

“Nonsense!” said Samar, pushing Ide away. “She will know one way or the other.”

“But the killers...” tried to object Ide.

“The forest will take care of them and they already asked her family. Mahaut can be trusted now. I feel like those men will die soon. Let use through now, before I remove this door.” said Samar with dark eyes and authority.

Ide gulped and opened her door to reveal the house. Samar entered as she would a throne room that belonged to her. She looked around and nodded, apparently satisfied. “That is clean. A good environment for a man to recover. Good for you to have cleaned everything. This house is well kept.” she turned to Ide and gave her a brief smile. “Well done.”

Mahaut suddenly froze in the door frame. “Ide, who is this?” she asked with a slight terror.

“This is... This is...” Ide began to say, fear building in her voice.

She said nothing more. Roland suddenly roared and got up of the bed, rushed to Samar, grabbing a knife on the table. “Saracen!” he yelled as he made a move to slit her throat.

Samar's eyes grew dark. “Rude.” she said before slapping him so hard he fell on the floor. “Put him back to bed.” she ordered Ide. “Men!” she spat.

Ide and Mahaut lifted a shocked and numbed Roland up on the bed and Mahaut could hardly contain her giggles at how easily Samar took him down. It had been stupid of Roland, in his weaken state to try and kill Samar. She was experienced and lived far longer than him and her strength was something to attract awe. Roland was no match, and the most funny thing was for him to believe he had a shot at fighting again.

“So who is this?” asked Mahaut between sobs of contained laughter.

Ide gave a weak joyless smile. “Roland. I picked him up half dead in the forest and brought him back to life.”

“As I can see.” said Samar. “Indeed, he seems rather very much alive.”

“Who is this Roland?” asked Mahaut, looking at him as he whimpered, half knocked out.

“One of those filthy murderers who invaded Syria, slaughtered its people like animals and violated that land they call Holy in the name of a god that sees no good in women or people who happen to be born different; a god that cares not of innocent or love. He is the worst of what religion has ever made; a crusader.” she spat the last word as though it was a supreme insult; one that could kill, one that could hurt.

“Those are harsh words, Samar.” said Mahaut, pouring herself some mead while taking a seat. “Even for you.”

“I know those men, child.” said Samar while taking a seat by the table. “I have known them in my prime and knights are not the most gentle men you can find. They have given me many scars.”

Samar gave a grin and sipped some herbal tea Ide offered her. Seeing two of the most important people of her life in her miserable house after weeks of silence and solitude warmed her very core. Even if Samar's hatred of Roland was still burning like hellfire.

“Ah!” sighed Mahaut. “If only there was a female knight. Now, this knight would be gentle.” she grinned and Ide gave a small laugh.

“No.” said Samar. “A knight is just as gentle as their lord and their beliefs. Women can be monster too. Don't forget it.”

“Have you met some?” asked Mahaut, taking a sharp knife off her belt to skin the rabbits by the hearth.

“Some... try many.” said Samar, nonchalantly holding her cups while Roland was awakening with doleful whimpers on the bed. “Women can be cruel; and some are crueler than men. There is no half measure in a woman, she will either love or kill you.”

Ide gave a sigh and drank a pint of strong ale and burped. “That is wrong.” she said with a hoarse voice. “You are wrong. Women are complicated, but so are men. I know so because I met men gentler than children.”

“He abandoned you and your child.” Samar's tone was cold and accusing. “And then, the child died. There is no gentleness in it.”

Ide gave a roar of rage and threw her pint at her under Mahaut's frighten yelping. “SHUT UP! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT! YOU NEVER KNEW!” she gave a howl of agony. “You never knew.” she whined, weeping.

Samar took the pint on the floor, poured back some ale in it and gave it back to her. “When I said there were no half measure, my child, I was right.” she whispered. “Never throw things at me again. Know that you owe me.” she wrapped a cloth around her shoulder. “Now, pull yourself together. Our guest is awake.”

Roland groaned on the bed and Ide hastily put him on his back and put a cold cloth on the cheek Samar slapped him. At first he tried to resist, but he surrendered to the most pleasing sensation of freshness against his doleful skin. His chest rose with each of his breathes and Ide could hardly kept her eyes away from his growing flesh. Even a weakling, he was bred for war. If only his eyes were gentler, maybe he wouldn't appeared such a beast.

“He should shave.” commented Mahaut. “I can't see shit behind this fur of his.” she removed the skin from a rabbit with a quick and determined motion.

“We know you prefer hairless chests.” Samar said without paying attention to Ide's calm tears. “If you attack me again, crusader, you will never walk again.”

Roland gulped. “Witch.” he hoarsely spat. “Saracen.”

Samar threw her hands in the air. “Yes!” she declaimed theatrically. “I confess! I am a witch! I am a devil! But this devil, little man, was not given to me by my kin, this devil, I found it in this land, in the same forest, in the same house, by a woman older than me who was taught by a woman older than her. My other skills? In that land you ravaged and in the delicate southern Spain, we call it science and I had the best of masters.” she bent to his face. “Know, that there is nothing you could do to harm me, and that I can make you suffer more.”

Roland chuckled, then laughed deliriously, mocking, not an ounce of joy in his voice.

“What is so amusing.” asked Samar, vexed.

Roland wiped out a tear from the corner of his eye. “You say you can make me suffer more. You will never outdo hell and all its demons. The real enemy, the one lurking in the shadows, always ready to bite to slaughter, to hurt, is not the one around you, but within. What harm could you do me that those demons have not already done?” he gave a last hoarse laugh and sighed.

Samar gauged him and gave a please smile. “Perhaps you are wise after all.” she said. “Or truly foolish.”

“Samar.” breathed Ide with exhaustion. “That's enough. Let him rest so I am through with it; so he can recover and finally leave.”

Roland gave her a confused look. So she wanted him to leave? Didn't she longed to keep him in his house to... to do what exactly? What did witches do to those they found? Roland couldn't even fathomed a reason. He quickly nodded to shake off those thoughts. It was the devil speaking. It was him whispering in his mind from his nightmares.

Mahaut took the other rabbit and began to cut the skin around. “Who are you exactly?” she asked. “And what did you do to my sweet Ide for her to be in such an exhausted state?”

 _He took the shreds of life within myself and I patched them on the holes of his self_ , thought Ide.

“My name is Roland.” he said. This one wasn't like the others. She did not look like a witch and seemed rather rich. Perhaps there was an ally in her, and perhaps he could free her from the witches' evil. “Son of William, lord of those lands and grandson of William who fought beside the duke, to reclaim Normandy and later conquered the rich kingdom of England.”

Mahaut dropped the rabbit which spattered blood around including on Ide's dress, drawing squeals of disgust from her as well as ragged breaths of anguish. It was so red and so dead and it was in her house. The dead was in her house. It seemed to her that she was about to barf. She hastily exited the house while Mahaut was as frozen, panicked about the rabbits, worried about her life. If he truly was William's son, then she would be punished for hunting his preys on his lands.

“Roland?” whispered Samar with contempt without paying attention to the hubbub. “You!” she spat. “I should have seen it! I have known William’s son since his birth! An arrogant fool who chose crusade over his humanity. A stupide spoiled little brat too busy to court damsels to even care for the greater good and the words of his god!”

“I paid the price for that!” seethed Roland. “This crusade cost me more than men, a broken sword or dead mates! It cost me my soul and what remained of the human inside of me. And now, I am lost.” he whispered, seemingly about to cry or drown in a sea of anguish.

“The rabbits.” murmured Mahaut, pressing her hands on her mouth.

Roland looked at it and his stomach groan. “If those are to feed me, then all is forgiven.”

“Those are to feed you alright, but I'd rather have my best friend alive than not.” said Mahaut, putting the rabbit on the table. “I'll bring more. Ide must eat and rest.” concern filled her voice. “I don't want to see her all emaciated and unrested. My Ide...”

Ide entered the house back, Night in her arms, purring against her chest. She had never appeared calmer. “If the men come back...” she began with fear.

Mahaut came to embrace her and kissed her forehead. “They will never hurt me and I'll kill them if they come for you.”

Roland snorted. “You? Your skills only do for animals. Those men are worse! I fought them and trust me, I never was so afraid for my life. You couldn't stand a chance. Even if you were a man.”

Ide shivered and Mahaut stroked her shoulder. “Do not fret. I know the tone. A wounded animal is but rage and mad ire. He is not himself at the moment, but give him time and he'll stop carp about all this nonsense.”

Roland gave a bitter laugh. “You all fit so well together, witches all the same.”

Mahaut brushed the remark off with her hand. “You healed him well, as I can see. Tisn't I who could patch wounds like that.”

“Yes.” approved Samar. “Your skill was not so rusted as I feared. I can feel that he is feeling better and stronger. Indeed, the rabbits will help him gain full recovery. Well done, again.”

Ide gave a fleeting smile. “Soon, you'll be released.” she kindly said to Roland.

He scoffed. “Honey in your voice, what a facade!”

Samar's eyes grew dark and she shot him a heinous glare which send shivers down his spine. “She should have let you rot!” she spat. “Crusaders like you are a mob to the world! Oh, you conquered a land in the name of a god who died there? You slaughter His children! You rape His women! This land cannot be conquered by anything but love! Love? You don't have any. You merciless dogs drive people out of their homes to bite them under false pretenses, afraid they might come to you by the sea and kill you. Did they do you any harm? No. Was it justified to kill them because they call your God another name? Even less! Your motives are clear in the affair: you desire gold and quenching a thirst for a violence you can no longer thrust upon your world because of kings and weak peaces; because some men north of here, west of there stopped coming to impose to your little precious world and power the same violence you serve in a land called Holy.” She stopped and drank some mead. “The time is different but all is the same. War feeds from wars and peace, from vanquished blood. That is the way of this twisted world.”

Roland gulped, his eyes growing wet, his chest rising with heavy breasts. “I believe...”

“I don't give a shit what you believe!” spat Samar. “I care only for actions.”

“I believed.” he said with a ragged voice. “I believe what was said. I believed in Christ even surrounded by darkness, for he is light and love...” his eyes grew melancholy. “Love... I sacrificed love, then.” then, darker. “I am well aware of what I did, saracen...”

“Her name is Samar.” said Ide, with the most tired of voices.

Roland looked at her, then at Samar. “I am well aware of what I did and for that I shall repent. Christ shall guide me.”

Samar brushed his words aside with her hand. “Words. Sometimes they do more harm than good. Keep praying to your god, crusader, maybe one day he'll give you a functionning brain.”

“Samar!” yelled an outraged Ide.

“I must go.” she said. “He tires me. Mahaut,” she said, turning to the young woman. “Be alert. The woods are dangerous for those who do not dwell in it. And give my greetings to your brother. With any luck, Joseph will send word for me if he buys the herbs I need.” then, she gently held Ide's chin. “Stop drinking and rest, my child. I do not want you to die before I do.” she gave a last look full of rage to Roland. “And heal this scruffy man. If you hurt him I will not blame you, though.”  
Ide gave a hurt whimper. “Samar.” she breathed. “Please.”

“Next time I see you it will be when he is gone. I cannot bear him in his house. Heal him quick and heal him well.”

Ide gave a nod and Smar left, behind her an empty void. Ide clung to Mahaut's arm to make sure she did not leave, to root herself to the ground and to reality, not to succumb to the void growing inside of her.

“Ide.” said Mahaut. “She will come back, you know that. And I will too, with rabbits and food and maybe clothes and sweets. I will always come back to you.”

Ide gave her a look of agony. “You won't.” she whined. “If your wishes come true, you will be wed and sent away from me.”

“My soul belongs to you.” said Mahaut embracing her friend. “No matter what, we are bound to each other. My presence will never truly be gone.” she picked up her knife and her quiver, bow and arrows. “I must away soon. For now, let us play outside. I need to sharpen my aim, and you need to tell me all your thoughts about this Roland, here.”

“Afraid I might not like it?” asked Roland with wariness and a hint of mockery.

Mahaut shrugged. “Afraid you might be disappointed.”

He gave a small icy laugh and fell back on the bed, and Ide sighed, hardly controlling melancholy. Her house once warm was now cold and empty. There was no love here; only mistrust and sorrow. Ide was alone and Ide was afraid. Afraid for him, afraid for Samar, afraid for Mahaut. Ide was sad also, sad to see that even in loneliness she still tore her world apart. She was of better use dead.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you are enjoying this so far.


	5. For the sake of survival

After Mahaut left, a thick and endless void began to grow within Ide. Now, her house was empty and it seemed that the last threads grounding her into reality burned; it seemed Ide's state entirely depended on her house. It was clean and tidy, but was it empty. She couldn't even rely on Roland's presence there. He was yet too wary of her to even talk to her with respect and Ide lived his presence here as an ordeal. He was mean and each of his words was as devastating as a sword blow.

Ide hated it. She wanted him out and she wanted to go back to the destruction of her self. She couldn't wait for him to recover. Maybe he would come back after he left with a throng to burn her down along with the house, to hang her to a tree or to try her and behead her in front of a court. Ide didn't care. She just wanted it to end. She wanted everything to end to be through with it all.

Ide was lonely, so lonely it seemed she was trapped in a void that she couldn't escape from. There was a hole in her core and that hole would never shut.

Mahaut and Samar were gone and now her world was dim and gray. When they left, Ide believed that they took her energy with them, for she had none left to spare. When she had been busy over the last month taking care of Roland, brewing her ale, tending her hives, cleaning her house, digging holes, cooking, building, bathing, healing or harvesting, she now spent her days crouched in her corner of her house, shrouded with emptiness and sadness. She did not even have the energy to weep. She just stared into a deep void and did not even react when Night came to beg caresses.

Her life force was as though it dwindled and it seemed she was now just a hollowed wandering corpse.

Aside from healing and helping Roland recover, she hardly did anything and let her world fall into ruins, for she was a ruin and a house usually reflected the owner. When the pain inside was too intense, she bit her arms in an attempt to feel something, but is was but a poor solution to a deeper misery. She barely ate and her health started to decline.

Roland, on the other hand, was getting better and stronger. He had gained a considerable amount of flesh and although it wasn't muscle, it was enough for him to start walking a few steps to the door of the house. His wounds healed into big scars but he needn't any bandages as of now. Each pound Ide lost, Roland gained.

He was so close to release, but a part of him clung there, lingered around Ide like a tenuous thread invisible to the eye, almost nonexistent yet still perceptible enough for him to want to stay in the house a bit. He watched her decay as he grew stronger. He watched her stare into the void, give him food and nothing for her, crouching on her bed, blankly looking around, her eyes, dead. He watched her and for the first time, he truly saw her face. Her complexion was dull and dim, pale with heavy dark blue rings below her eyes. It seemed the bones of her cheeks were trying to rip out her flesh and she was so thin it seemed as though she was going to die any moment. Her hair was unkept and her dress was stiff with filth, falling into rags.

Roland's heart skipped a beat and sank in his chest. He pitied her. He did not know why but he pitied her. She didn't even bother to drink. She didn't even bother at all.

Sadness came to overtake him. He was sad for her. He was sad she weakened. Oh, he knew she was a witch. He convinced himself of it after all, but he was afraid for her and if she left, he didn't know why, but he would miss her before the memory of her faded from his memory. Or perhaps it would still linger there, forever dwelling to remind him of what he owed to her. He owed her food, realization, and life.

He longed to leave, but still, a part of him clung to this place; to her.

A storm was brewing in the distance, which did not help Roland to sleep. Each clattering thunder blasts reminded him of Hell and of the demons that were sleeping within him. Roland was so terrified he was constantly on the brink of one of his anxiety attacks. He couldn't sleep till he exhausted himself, he couldn't stop screaming his terror away at night and he couldn't avoid this darkness that slowly consumed him. Sometimes, he wanted to weep; for him, for Hugues, for his fallen squire and for the people he killed; but Ide's presence in the house prevented him of it. He must, by all means, never show any signs of weakness to her. She would see it and her hollow wandering body would seek his death and she would take all of his life-force away.

Roland was afraid he would never get to live a normal life now. The things he saw during the crusade, and the things he saw in that forest would haunt him forever like a disease, a gaping wound that would fester with venom and pestilence. He wished he could go back to those days of innocence, when everything was still good and when all was well. What he wouldn't give for his old unmarked self. Now, he was changed: graver, sadder, more aware of the world and its darkness, more aware of God, of good and wrong. He left this land a boy, he returned a damaged man. Life would never be easy again.

A thundering sound echoed throughout the forest. The storm was done brewing and now it exploded with all the strength of the world. The damping heat would finally be gone and Ide would have been satisfied had she not been hollow, for she worried the heat would disadvantage Roland's recovery and bring infections.

Roland twisted and turned on the bed and he shed some shameful tears Ide did not see. He gave a scream, but no soothing song came to ease his fear; for thunder reminded him of hell and of what he saw in his dreams. Thunderstorms reminded him of Syria and of battle; and those clattering battles, he only survived them thanks to one man who was long gone, now.

“God dwells there. God dwells there.” he kept whispering to himself as a prayer. “Hugues.” he called, almost silent. “Help me.”

No help came. And in the middle of the clatter, Ide left the house, probably tired of Roland's yelping and whimpering, and she went out, under the cold rain, exposing herself to the fury of the sky. She didn't care anyway. If she died, then, all would be over.

“And nothing but rest.” she murmured, sounding insane.

And she sat there, on the soaked soil, waiting for all to end while Roland wept in the house, begging for release, fighting against his own hell.

 

The storm passed, like many others before it. It was the way of the world, everything was ephemeral. Ide was back in the house, crouched somewhere, hollowed and sad and Roland was asleep, an empty bowl of gruel by his side, his breath, still smelling of that rabbit terrine Ide had made with herbs and cider. He whimpered in his sleep, but it was nothing compared to the screams he had given many weeks ago.

It was calm in the house. Calmer than a graveyard. It was calm until a few knocks tore Ide from her torpor. She forced herself off the floor and, her heart pounding in her chest from fear and anguish that those who wounded Roland came to finish the job, she stepped towards the door, hesitant even touch it.

“Ide? Are you there?” asked the most familiar voice of Joseph.

She gave a long breath of relief and release, shedding some tears in the process, her lips quivering as well as her nostrils. She hastily wiped off her tears and tried to bear a calm composure.

“Is it early?” she asked as she exited the house, carefully listening to Roland to make sure he was sleeping tight.

“No.” said Joseph. “Midday is passed. Were you sleeping?”

Ide gave a nervous laugh. “I guess. I lost track of time.”

“Ide,” said Joseph, worried. “Are you well?”

Ide brushed his remark off with her hand. “Oh yes.” she said. “I will be.”

“Have you been drinking? Mahaut told me you were.”

Ide gazed in the distance and her eyes grew cold. “It is nothing I can't handle. I am fine.”

Joseph gauged her a bit and shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Why are you here?” Ide asked. “Why is Mahaut not with you?”

“She is busy. We deemed it would be good for her to get to know the man we wish her to marry. I believe they went for a ride to the manor of William, or is it that of his eldest son? Ah! I can't keep up with that family! The eldest is married and his wife is breeding babies, the sisters are off in England or near Rouen and the last one is who-knows-where, in Holy Land or something, killing Saracens in the name of God! What a family!”

Ide chuckled nervously, thinking of Roland in her house. The last son of William was closer than Joseph thought. “You do remember alright.” she said.

“My wife and gossips... You know.” said Joseph with a tender smile.

“I know she spread a lot about me.” Ide said, colder.

Joseph suddenly gave a guilty look. “Anyway, she told me that William's brother lost a son in the crusade and that the other one has become insane. He has no heir as of now and his only daughter has heard God's calling and took the veil. Mathilda has heard that Godfrey would soon be declared heir to the lands of his grandfather. He is getting more powerful. Imagine the wealth that it will bring us! Trade will grow substantially!” he said with enthusiasm.

“Is that why you came? To tell me of the gossips?” asked Ide. “Mathilda couldn't bear telling a witch could she? By the way, does she still think that I took all the men who died and rode them to give them the disease? Or has her story changed and I put them all in a cauldron to brew love potions?!” the sentence took her all her energy left to pronounce and she desperately wanted to go and sleep for forty years. She feared that pursuing the conversation would drain her.

Joseph nervously squirmed near the door and scratched his head. He always did that when someone was close to a truth he was hiding. Ide knew that and Mahaut knew that; they grew up together and there was nothing Ide couldn't see about Joseph and his wife. Mathilda had always despised Ide. Maybe it was the way she dressed, her long raven hair or merely the fact that she was a woman who knew her husband better, but Mathilda had always shown resentment, even jealousy, when Ide was around.

“Why did you come, Joseph?” asked Ide in a tired sigh.

Joseph opened and closed his mouth, seeking for appropriate words for a piece of news that would surely bring sorrow and misery to a woman he considered a friend.

“Is it Mahaut?” asked Ide with a growing fear. “Oh Joseph, you know you can tell me the truth, don't you? You know there is nothing I wouldn't do for her and her happiness. Please, tell me she is well. I beg you!” her voice, although tired, sounded distressed and urgent.

Joseph calmly took her shoulders. “No, no.” he reassured her. “Nothing of the sort. Mahaut is well. You know her, always so energetic, always running, always happy. No, Mahaut is finer than ever. On that, rest assured.” he gave a grim face. “It is something else. I... I don't know how to announce it.”

“Each word of yours is torture, Joseph. Please, do speak.” Ide sighed with exhaustion.

“Ide, let me warn you, it is truly harsh. Do you really...”

“Speak!” Ide yelled with the last shred of energy left in her.

Joseph gave a sad sigh. “It's Mary.” he confessed. “She had a miscarriage a few days ago. We just heard it and I... I thought you should know.”

Ide began to pant and a great knot grew in her throat. She felt tears rushing to her eyes but none came, for her eyes had been dry for days. Ide gave a whimper full of pain, of guilt, of sorrow.

“No.” she whined. “Mary. No.” she closed her eyes, her face distorted by sorrow, thinking about her sweet sister, all alone, with no decent medical help to ease her body. She thought about her and of the pain of losing a child. Se thought of the void, the emptiness and the cruelty of existence. Ide touched her empty womb. “Mary. Oh Mary.” she whispered. “It is my fault. It is mine.” her mouth was wet with snot and saliva.

“It isn't.” said Joseph with tenderness and pity.

Ide gave him a sarcastic look. “Oh, is it? That is what people will think, Joseph, you know it. And now the stain is on Mary too and there is nothing you can do. It is my fault. They will know it at the village and you will all believe it. It is my fault and they will be right.” Ide wiped off the snot from her face. “I need a drink.” she murmured. “You should head back home.”

“I can stay, if you desire company.” Joseph offered.

Ide scoffed mockingly. “Would your wife agree?” Joseph gave a saddened look and lowered his eyes, defeated. “Didn't think so. Go to her. Don't tell her you were with,” she pointed to herself. “The witch. That mob of hell, that whore, devouress of children and emptier of wombs.”

Joseph gave an irritated groan. “Fine! Drink all you want! I am sorry my presence was an ordeal to you! My regards to Samar!”

“As if she cared.” Ide mockingly whispered.

“You are truly horrible!” Joseph accused. “It is a wonder Mahaut is still your friend! Good bye Ide! Give Martha my regards! At least, she was a well-behaved friend!”

Ide gave an empty look towards Joseph. “Martha is dead.” she whispered. “She was buried with Jack.”

“You think you lost everything,” said Joseph with an irritation that turned to anger. “But you are blind even to your sister and mine. You see but through a misshapen glass.” And with this, he left the house and the clearing and headed towards the village, towards his wife and children, and towards a world Ide had left long ago.

Ide went back inside and saw that Roland snored, not at all awaken by her yelling and her heated argument with Joseph. She gave a long sigh of relief. She had been afraid he would wake up and call for help and she would have had to explain it to the sheriff, to the monks – those damn monks! - to Roland's family and they would have provided him a doctor that would have bled him to death. She sacrificed enough of her life and sanity for this man. He wasn't going to interfere with her caring. Not even through his voice.

Ide looked at him and considered his untrimmed beard and unkept hair for a moment. For now, he resembled a beast. Maybe she ought to rid him of this most ungracious hair, to cut his hair or whatever. Maybe she also ought to harvest herbs and start brewing ale for the next fair; and maybe she should keep on digging into the ground to make her cellar; and perhaps she would do well chopping wood for her winter fire; and maybe she should polish the sword; she should repair the mail coat; she should retrieve the horse; clean the house; change the bandages; wash the clothes; fix; swipe; polish. She should do... She should do...

The world spun around her and she fell on her bed made of straw and she crouched, whimpering, then howling her distress, shedding some real tears this time, displaying an ugly scene for Roland who was waking up.

“It is my fault.” she howled. “My fault.” she kept on saying.

The void came again, but joined with a crushing guilt and a sincere and profound sadness for Mary, for her dreams and for her pain, for Ide knew what it felt like; and now she wept, not only for Mary, but for her memories, for who she once was, for those she lost and those she will never bring to the world. She was a failed woman, and she was a failed friend. She poured herself her strongest ale, and she started to drink; drink to numb it all, until all that remained was dizziness and nothing.

She wallowed in self-loathing, drinking to fill the void, to erase the memories. She always came back to those. It was a painful anchor in a suffering sea; it was the beginning of sorrow, the end of herself. To her, it was everything.

Night came and laid beside her, offering something warm to hug or to pet. Ide buried her fingers in his black fur and he started to purr; and Ide stopped drinking, stopped sobbing, stopped weeping; buried her face in his furry belly, inhaled his scent and relaxed her tense muscles, gently falling asleep with the help of booze, and that of a cat who was the solace of this sad house.

Roland looked at her and wondered what turmoil could move such a woman. He wondered if there had ever been a day she was not miserable. He wondered if she was able to smile and how her laugh sounded like. He wondered about her and about her pain, and for the first time, he thought that maybe they shared more than he thought. Maybe she and him were the same, minus the fact that she was a witch and an heretic. Maybe, and it pained him to think about it, she was good.

 

The void kept growing until nothing remained but ashes. Ide was barely moving and giving food to Roland exhausted her and she had to sleep countless hours to recover. She didn't want to do anything but lay still on her raw bed and look at the ceiling. Everything that happened in the world left her scarred and scared, and it gave her more anxiety than good. She absorbed every bad energy and kept it inside of her until it broke her.

Roland and her now lived in some kind of bland torpor that festered in a caged life. They couldn't escape it; couldn't leave the house so long as men were looking to end Roland's life; couldn't leave it until Roland was well enough to defend himself again. They couldn't escape the tension and that misery they brought on each-other.

It was calm in the house and around; calm until voices rose in the clearing, and heavy footsteps and clattering sounds of weapons joined them.

Roland awoke suddenly, as if entranced by the sounds; awoke as a reflex gained in the crusade when any sound of metal was the signal he must get up and fight. He reached for his sword and mail coat, but they weren't there and he realized he was in Ide's house and not in his tent with Hugues sleeping by his side. He was home and defenseless, weak and recovering. His sole defense was Ide and she was not a woman who knew how to fight. Roland shed a shameful tear at the realization that he would die.

One of the men hailed in the clearing and hammered on the door with all his strength.

Roland tried to stand up and walk but Ide woke up suddenly and with a quick motion, she stood up and put her hands on Roland's bare chest to stop him.

Roland gave her a confused look and he blushed, realizing he quite enjoyed her fingers on his skin.

“Get back to bed.” Ide whispered in a hurry.

“Those men are here for me.” Roland whispered back. “I can't fight them. You can't fight them.”

“I can tell them to go away. I can tell them you are dead and buried.” said Ide, fear growing inside of her. “Stay hidden. Stay silent.”

“If they kill me, everything would be better, no?” he asked, locking his eyes to hers.

Ide tried to find the words, realizing that she had heard those words spoken by herself not so long ago. “No.” she said. “Your family needs you. And I need you to survive. Stay put. I will take care of this.”

“Woman...” Roland tried to argue.

“Stay put.” she said, pushing him to the bed.

The man hailed again. Ide brushed off dust from her dress and nervously tried to give her hair a decent appearance. She gave a look to Roland, laying still on the bed, barely breathing, trying not to give any hints of presence away. She opened the door and swiftly got out.

They were three. One missed an eye and the wound was fresh. Ide guessed it was Roland who inflicted it on him. One other missed some fingers but he was muscular and strong. The other missed nothing and was lean as a fox. He seemed cunning enough to plot death to even kings and get away with it. The one-eyed man was thin, though not as thin as Roland had been, and although they were not wearing mail coats, Ide could see that their weapons were of good craft and quite expensive, not to mention they wore rich fabrics. If those men weren't rich, as she could deduce by the way their teeth were kept, surely their master was.

The lean one came closer, a sword in his hand, and gauged her before he gave a pleasant smile; a cold one, a mean one. “Say woman, offer us shelter under your roof.”

Ide scoffed. “I know what happen to women like me under a roof with men like you. It isn't usually pleasant.”

“Trust that we want you no harm. We are merely exhausted, for we have been searching through this forest for someone.”

Ide's blood iced in her veins. She was right. Those men _were_ those who attacked Roland.

“Let us in.” asked the lean one.

“No.” retorted Ide.

“Why? Do you have anything to hide?” as he said it, the other two came to stand behind him.

Ide played a casual shrug. “It is just that my house it truly messy. My cat just peed and shat everywhere as a protest that I gave him not enough food so if you want to spend some time in stench, be my guests.” she motioned to her door.

The lean one gave a face of sheer disgust. He would rather die than soil his nostrils with what the woman offered, and his comrades would too.

“Who are you looking for? Perhaps I can help you with that matter.” she offered, hoping her voice did not betray her fear.

“Why, aren't you a good woman.” said the lean one with a smile. “We are looking for a crusader who attacked my friends and I not so long ago. He went mad and sought our death, for we are wealthy men who were simply crossing the forest to go home. We managed to bring him down but after we came back from the abbey where we were healed, we returned to honor this poor man with a decent burial, for we are compassionate men, you see, and we respect God's teaching of love and respect; but we found him nowhere and we are quite distressed we do not find him, for we very much desire to offer him a burial in holy ground. Do you happen to know what happened?”

Ide's fear suddenly increased. The man's lies were all so cruel and said in so calm a manner she realized how dangerous this man truly was. It wasn't his sword she should be wary of, but his tongue. She inhaled and played an embarrassed laugh. “Yes. Yes I do know what happened of him.” she said.

“Ah!” he said. “What a marvelous decision it was knocking on your door. I must confess we were quite worried that this forest hid some tricks to bring us harm, hence the swords, you see. I am most happy to have found you.” his smile was honeyed and his voice betrayed cruelty.

Ide nervously smiled and it cost her a lot of energy. “I found him. I buried him.” she lied.

The lean one's face grew cold suddenly, and he seemed to have realized it, for he played a saddened face. “Well, that is quite vexing.” he said. “May you show me where? We much desire to offer him a place in a holy ground.”

Ide's heart raced in her chest. She couldn't let them enter the house and she couldn't let them walk free. She must act. She needed a weapon.

She played an embarrassed look. “This is quite unpleasant.” she said. “I happen to have buried him under my cellar, where I put the ale I brew. I hoped it would add something, you see, but so far, it brought me nothing but embarrassment. Perhaps I can show you and offer you a cup of it in the process.” she considered poisoning him, but she had no knowledge of those fluids of death, for she chose to bring life rather than take it. But now, she must, and she was already dreading the outcome.

“Ale?” said the one-eyed one. “One man is enough for this, surely. I will come with you.” he sounded enticed by the thought of ale and not at all keen on sharing with his comrades. He seemed to be a beer connoisseur and if his death wasn't so necessary, Ide would have sold him some good ale for sure. He gave a look to the lean one who nodded.

Ide led him to her cellar, aware of his one eye on her ass, aware that he would kill her if he had the chance. She opened the door of the cabin and entered, followed by the man who looked around like a child seeing something magical and inhaled the scent of alcohol and fine wood. He was almost entranced and his eyes shone like diamonds.

“What a marvel.” he chanted. “What a marvel.”

Ide groaned. He surely drank more than herself. She leaned on a hatch and rose it while the one-eyed man was being busy obsessing over Ide's mead. What a chance he was such an alcoholic. Ide took the sword buried there with a swift move, gripping the handle with all the power of her fear, with all the strength of an urgent need to survive. Adrenaline rushed to fuel her veins and give power to her muscles and with a quick move and a roar full of terror, she turned away, and cut the man down, slicing through his skin from throat to navel in an awful sound of flesh and gargles, soaking her dress with blood while drops of it rolled down her blanched complexion.

The man fell at her feet, his eyes still locked in his awe and Ide gagged seeing them so full of life, yet so dead, for now, guts were coming out of his body; Ide had killed. Ide had killed; something she swore never to do.

She wanted to scream, to run away, to cower in a corner and to kill herself. She wanted it to end and she had never had that so imperious urge to set herself on fire, to burn that despicable monster she had become. She wanted to scratch herself and bleed. She wanted pain, so much pain.

But she gripped the handle harder, her terror increased. She must protect Roland. One man was already dead. That left her two.

Slowly, she got out of the cabin and saw the two men step closer to the door of the house where Roland was. Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept walking, keeping her guard such as Mary's husband once taught her. She was no warrior, and she feared she wouldn't fare well and die and bring death to Roland in the process. She was walking on a thin thread that threatened to break at any moment and throw her in a gap that ended with her wreckage of a body.

The lean one looked at her and swore when he realized she exited the house alone, covered with blood, a sword in her hands. His face lost its pleasing appearance to take that of a demon. “This bitch!” he spat. “Kill her!” he ordered the other one.

He stepped closer, wielding a sword in his damaged hand. This one seemed a brute and his strength was uncanny. With him, there would be no surprise, no mercy. Ide would die.

He brought his blade down in an attempt to kill Ide while the lean one went to inspect the cabin. Ide dodged the blow with a terrorized yelp and now she backed the forest. He attacked again, tried to slit her throat or merely to touch her skin, but Ide dodged a blow and diverted another with the sword, nearly dropping it because of the power of the man's blows. He waved his blade around, scaring Ide, panicking her until she nearly froze in front of him, stepping back each time.

The man laughed. “Scared little girl?”

Ide shed a tear and dropped her arms, now defenseless, out of strength, exhausted by all this physical effort, disheveled, dry blood sticking to her skin. The man laughed again when he saw how weak she was. He brought his sword up to strike Ide down, to shatter her skull and kill her in a quick motion, roared to give himself strength, and was about to execute her.

He suddenly gargled as the tip of a small knife came through his throat. He dropped his weapon that fell with a thumping sound on the moss of the clearing. The knife disappeared and the man reached to his throat that was pouring gallons of blood. With a disgusting gargle, he fell on the ground, drowning in his own blood, while Ide's face covered in warm tears, as she panted and tried to suppress screams and anguish. She sobbed and whimpered, and she whined and wept.

Behind the man, panting and growling, was Roland, holding a bloody knife, in a crusader's rage. All his body was tensed and his eyes, once empty were now shining like burning sun; burning with life and purpose. He was going to kill the last man; and he was going to enjoy it. Those men sought to kill him once. Now was the time for retribution.

The lean one hurried outside the house to find another man down, and Roland, a man he hoped dead, very much alive. He gave a roar of rage and rushed towards Roland, his sword ready to slice.

“IDE!” yelled Roland “SWORD!”

At first, the words did not make sense in her shocked mind, but the lean one's screams tore her out of her panic and with a doleful yelp, she threw the sword to Roland who caught it with ease.

To Roland, no questions would be asked that day. He wouldn't ask anything. He would only kill and revel in slaughter and carnage. It was his way. He was a soldier and soldiers fought. To him, the man facing him was already dead.

A blow came to him and Roland diverted it with all the might of clattering blades. The crash was so violent his opponent made a few steps to try and catch his balance back, but Roland was quicker and had the experience of battles. One second was too much to spare. He had to finish him and finish him quick. With his foot, he blocked the blade, with the pommel of his sword, he knocked the man's head. Dizzy, he stepped backward, leaving his blade in the process.

The lean one grabbed that of his dead mate, but Roland struck his hand and cut deep into the flesh so that now, his fingers were dangling from his hand. With a great roar of pain and rage, the lean one dropped the sword once again and looked at Roland. He had no weapons, that was sure, but he still had his tongue left.

“If you kill me,” he seethed. “You will never know who ordered your death.”

“I don't care.” growled Roland.

And with this, in a quick motion, Roland struck down his sword and beheaded the man. His head fell on the moss, a last look of sheer terror carved on his face, and the body followed. The last of Roland's opponents was dead and now, his warrior rage began to leave him, giving space for pain and a dreadful aftermath.

He had been afraid. All this time he had been afraid, but now was truly when he felt it; now that the rage ceased and nothing was there to conquer anguish and fear.

A sob made him turn to Ide, all red, weeping, almost howling, looking around, shaking and shivering. She killed today. She killed one man, but it seemed that she had a thousand. Roland wanted to reach to her, to comfort her, to hold her in his arms such as Hugues once did for him after his first kill. Roland wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but his sight suddenly went blurry, and the world began to spin around him.

He heard Ide call him and reach for him, but he fell on the soft moss, next to a pool of blood, and then, there was nothing.

 


	6. Love and Life

Roland woke up in the bed with terrible cramps, whimpering and torn by doleful pangs. At first, his sight was blurry and he hardly recognized where he was, but it made sense in his numb brain that he was still in Ide's house; it smelled the same, felt the same. He was dizzy and his head hurt as if he had been drinking for months. Beside him was a woman who sat in silence, her eyes locked into the void; a woman, scarred and still stained with blood and tears.

Roland tried to speak and she suddenly broke from her trance, brought a fresh linen and a bowl of gruel.

“Don't tell me it has been days.” he said.

Ide shook her head. “No.” she whispered. “Barely a few hours.”

“I feel like shit.” he groaned. “What happened?”

“You beheaded a man and then you fell. I was worried it was some infected wound or worse, but it turned out it was just exhaustion. I put you back to bed and worked to lower a potential fever.”

Roland's brow furrowed and he narrowed his eyes when he saw that she was covered with dirt. “Why are you covered with dirt?”

“I buried the men. It seemed safer than lighting a fire that would bring more of them here. In the ground, the forest will take care to erase them; the forest is all, here. They will never resurface again. On this, we are safe.” she said.

Roland tried to sit up but fell back on the bed with a frustrated groan. It seemed as though all his recovery had been meaningless. “For now,” he said. “Men will ask themselves why they are gone and they will come to look for them.”

“Not if the wolves ate them raw.” Ide grimly said with a knowing look.

Roland looked at her, trying to formulate some words. “That is...” he began. “Clever.” he frowned again. “Where did you bury them? In a graveyard?”

Ide gave a scoff. “Dear lord, no. I buried them in the forest. Had I in a graveyard, I would have been hanged and tried and you would be dead. No, I buried them in the forest, as I just told you.”

Roland gave a confused laugh. “Yes. Forgive me, I am not quite myself yet.”

“Yes.” Ide murmured. “You seem much gentler.”

“Gentler?” asked Roland. Yes, he was gentler; and the most bizarre thing was that it felt natural. He was no longer fighting against currents. He was swimming with the flow and it relaxed him.

Roland didn't know why he suddenly felt more comfortable with the witch. Something broke when she gave him the sword, and something replaced it as soon as it did; the things that happened in the forest, the blood they both shed bound them together and now, their connection was deeper than ever. Ide killed for him and he killed for her. Now, they were guilty and their faults rested on each other's shoulders. Now, a link older than human voices was binding their fates together.

Roland tried to shake those thoughts away but he couldn't, for now, it struck him how wrong he was, and how terrible he had been towards Ide. Now, he was aware of her and he felt like he knew her better.

“You really did save me.” he whispered. “That was no lie.”

“What would I have gained lying?” Ide asked. “What did you think I was going to do with you? Kill you? I would have died had you. My life depended on yours.” she confessed. “I am a witch, as you often said, but I think of myself as a healer and my knowledge of plants holds no trap and no sorrow.”

Roland gave a sigh and look at the ceiling. “I thought you would do me something terrible. I have seen the world, Ide. I know how cruel it can be. I know that life is fragile; that its thread can snap at any moment. I am wary of everything, that is how I returned safely. I merely assumed the worst, when I should have assumed the best.” he gave her a look full of gratitude. “The darkness of the world can blind even the wisest of men, and corrupt the gentlest of women.”

Ide lowered her eyes shamefully. It felt like he was talking about her.

“What I am trying to say, is: Thank you. Thank you for everything you did for me. I am very glad you found me in the forest.” he said.

Ide's face lit with a grateful smile and for the first time, she felt somewhat content with life. For the first time, she did not feel the need to drink to stifle her pains.

Roland's face grew concerned. “What did you do with my sword?” he asked.

“It is inside the house. I will tell you where if you promise on your soul and your faith never to use it against me.” she said.

Roland gave a frustrated growl. “Woman! I told you I want you no harm!”

“You also told me that the darkness makes one wary. Did you ever think I would have not tasted it and drowned in it? I dwelt and reveled in darkness and now it is home.” said Ide. “Now, promise me.”

Roland sighed. “Fine.” he capitulated. “On my faith, my soul and the name of God, Christ and the Holy Spirit, I swear never to use my blade against you.”

Ide stood up and went to fetch something under her raw bed. The blade shone in the dim light of the evening and Roland had never think it so beautiful. Perhaps that the fact it had been used by a stranger to protect and save him, him and all the demons that slept within, made it so that its beauty was increased.

Ide showed him the sword and he nodded. She put it back under her bed and then Roland saw it for the first time, the sheer discomfort in which she slept, against a bare and filthy floor, in dirty sheets and used furs. No wonder she was exhausted.

He suddenly felt guilty. She offered him everything – including visions of horror – and all she was repaid with was mistrust and prejudice. The demons danced somewhere in his heart, welcoming him into their mean and twisted world. If he wanted to prove himself worthy of Christ, then, the least he could start doing was behaving better towards his savior, for she had been his savior twice, and now she turned to be thrice by redeeming his soul.

“They had poisoned blades.” Ide grimly said. “I recognized the smell and burned them before I buried them in another part of the forest.”

“Then you were lucky.” he said, slowly reaching for her hand. “We were lucky.”

He couldn't help it. All the fibers of his being were drawn to her and at the moment, he longed only for connection.

“I wish I didn't kill them, though. Had I not, I would have asked questions about why they wanted me dead so much.” he confessed.

But Ide, on her part, - and she hated herself for this - was glad he did. That way, they were free of killers roaming the forest, and the terrible wait of the prey ceased. Now, she could lower her guard until Roland was back again at being a fearless warrior, then, he would be a prey no longer, but a predator. The thought chilled her blood. Her guard was lowered but still, Roland remained a crusader and for all his new gentleness, she did not deem him kind and compassionate enough to spare her. She feared he might claim she was a witch again and slit her throat. Old habits died hard, Ide knew from experience, and Roland was not the type to renounce it either.

She stood up, still shaking, hardly keeping a calm breath and poured herself ale thrice, drinking to forget that now her hands were red with death, proving the rumors true; that she was curse and brought death. Now, it was all true, it was her fault. Every single death that struck the village was her fault. Her family, her friends and her dead prospect was her fault. She poured herself a fourth pint and Roland groaned, winced in the bed, a hand on his ribs, looking at her disapprovingly.

Ide stopped, the pint grazing her lips and looked at him back. He was calm, but she could feel a storm was brewing inside of him, violent and unforgiving.

“What?” she asked.

Roland frowned. “I approve of a good strong drink after a first kill to calm nerves, but don't you think it is too much?”

Ide gave a bitter and loud laugh. “I can handle this. Trust me when I say that what I drank is not yet enough to 'calm my nerves' as you say.”

“It doesn't seem so.” he said. “You are still shaking.”

Ide's fake smile fell and her eyes grew hollow. She put down the pint and stared into the void. At the moment, all she wanted was to return to her emptiness and lay on the bare wooden floor, let herself be taken by the forest like the forest took the three men who came for Roland's demise.

“You have that look again.” Roland said. “That look you had before... before it happened, that look that brought me pity.”

Ide gave a frustrated sigh and looked at him, this time, her eyes wet and full with irritation. “Pity me, then! But quit talking or I'll sew your mouth!”

“You won't.” he calmly said. “I think I know you enough to be capable to judge that you won't.”

Ide roared and threw the pint away, crying. “Shut up! You don't know me! You know nothing!”

“It is true, I confess. But I desire to know my savior better.” he said.

“Savior? If I truly was a savior, I wouldn't have killed! I wouldn't have lost myself in saving you! I wouldn't have listened to your night terrors!” she grew sad again. “If I truly was a savior, there wouldn't be death around me.”

“His death was necessary.” he said.

“No death is necessary.” Ide replied. “None at all.”

Roland grew irritated. “And what do you want me to say, huh? People die! Every corner of the world there is suffering! Can we do anything about it? No! Such is life! Such is the world! and nothing, no one, can do anything about it!” there were a few seconds of silence before he spoke again. “I have seen it. I have seen the darkness of the world. I have also seen good and life. If there is no death at all, then there is no balance and there is no miracle, no faith, no hope. Without death, I believe that life loses its meaning.”

Ide sat back on her stool. “Perhaps you are right. But it doesn't change the fact that I killed today. I, a healer, devoted to bring life, brought death. I swore I would never kill, never use my knowledge for poisons. I told myself that if I proved I can save people, bring you back to life, then what they say will be wrong. But I killed. I proved them true.” she said, not for him, but to herself.

“What are you talking about?” asked a puzzled Roland.

Ide seemed to realize she was talking out loud, for she appeared surprised. She shook her head and played a nervous innocent chuckle. “Nothing. I am talking about nothing.”

Roland frowned. She was hiding something. Was she afraid of the truth, or afraid of what he would do with it? Whatever it was, though, he knew she suffered from it. Oddly, he wanted to take a bit of her burden on his shoulders but his was so heavy already and he knew he would fail bearing both.

“I should have let him live.” she confessed. “I should have only inflicted damages I know I could have healed. I should never have used that sword.”

Roland shook his head disapprovingly. “No. You would be ill-advised not to kill a foe. Sure, you could chain them, maim them, enslave them or torture them, you could spend a lifetime repaying the outrage they did to you, but sometimes, death is far better a fate than keep on living like less than an animal.” he gave a look to that sword, still showing its blade from under Ide's raw mattress, he feared might disappear again. “You did the right thing. I would have done it too.”

“You are a warrior.” said Ide. “That is different. You are used to the slaughter, used to red swords and spattered flesh; but I am not.”

“I am a warrior, that is true. But understand this: sometimes, killing is necessary.” Ide shed tears hearing it. It was so hard yet she knew it was somewhat true. “There are different kind of battles, a multitude of reasons to fight and to kill. Some kill because they like it, others in the name of something greater than themselves, and others will fight for survival. But there is no noblest fight, no greater a reason than fighting and killing to protect a fellow being, no matter how dark their soul is.” he gave a sad and bitter smile. “Your reasons were just. Your hands are red with justice.”

Ide gave a tired sigh. “I killed a man, and you two. Where is the justice in that? How can you cope with it?”

Roland grew somber. “You can't.” he confessed. “On the battlefield, you do not see them as humans. You see only corpses waiting to be sliced down; only empty vessels. You remove humanity to those bags of flesh, you dehumanize even mercy, for there is none. On the battlefield, you do not fight men, you slaughter only creatures beneath animals; for if you do, then, it is you they kill. Kill or be killed, that law reigns supreme there. But at night, after you survived, they always come to haunt you.”

Ide drank another pint of ale. Her eyes were fountains and she doubted the flow of her tears would ever stop, if she would ever bear hardship as well as Samar.

“Pour me one too.” he asked. “My mouth is dry from all this talking.”

Ide complied and gave a joyless smile. “I have never heard your words more than today.”

Roland gladly drank the pint and closed his eyes in sheer delight. “That ale is so good!” he exclaimed. “It is so different than anything I have ever tasted!”

“That's the fruits and herbs I put in it. The forest provides for a lot of unknown flavors.” she said, flattered by Roland's appreciation. He would have tasted the finest of wines, of beers, cider and mead and still, he found her ale good. It flattered her as well as her craft and for the first time in months, she felt proud.

“You seem to enjoy this forest.” he noted.

Ide gave a brief smile. “That is my realm, my kingdom; but Samar is the true sovereign here. She knows everything and the knowledge of it, she got it from a woman who dwelt there in the house of an older woman. I do not know where the first dweller came from, but there is a legend that says she came by the sea on a dragon, that her hair was paler than the moon and her eyes red like those of a serpent.”

Roland gave a smile of his own, thinking about this legend his mother used to tell him when he was younger. “The dragons are gone now. They no longer roam the sea. The time of legend has passed, I think, for the time of kings has settled.”

“That's poetic.” Ide noted.

“My mother enjoys poetry. That's all.” he shrugged.

Ide's smile faded and she was grim again. “I killed a man.” she whispered. “I almost died.”

Suddenly, air was rarer and she tried to catch her breath, panicking, panting, hoarsely breathing, almost suffocating. She almost died. She killed and almost died. The thought sank in deeper and deeper until all she could do was wallow into it. When once she wanted to be dead, now she realized she almost did and it frightened her, how short life was and how powerless she was. True she wanted death. True, she wanted the emptiness to fade away, but being slain by a man with a sword was not the death she wanted. Her own destruction would come through her and herself only.

She buried her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. She wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty; she just wanted to drink to pass out, for her memories to be all gone, to be swallowed by a creature or something, to disappear. Her heart raced in her ribcage, begging for release and she almost gagged at the mere thought of herself being covered by a man's blood she slew with a sword which was still soaked with the blood of innocents.

She deemed herself a monster; a despicable monster. She thought about his mother, his wife, his children had he any. She thought of their sorrow; that so peculiar sorrow one felt when one's family was dead. She once felt it, now she inflicted it on someone. She shivered and sobbed again. She would never see a sword again. Never, she swore, while the half-cut body of the one-eyed man came to haunt her whenever she closed her eyes. She deserved to die, just like him died.

Roland saw her crumble down all of a sudden, and he held his hand in mid-air, hesitating to even touch her. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, renouncing to touch her out of awkwardness.

“I killed a man.” she sobbed. “I killed a man.”

Roland closed his eyes and shed a tear. “Yes. You did. It will haunt you till your death, but you also saved a man today. A death against dozens of lives saved by your skills, isn't it enough?”

Ide looked at him, bewildered. “Do not excuse what I did! I was supposed never to kill! I was supposed to be...”

“Pure?” he asked. “No one is. Not even Christ was.”

Ide looked at him with indignation and, her eyes still wet, walked out of the house, towards where she stocked her ale, towards her hives, towards the cave she was building, towards anywhere but Roland's words excusing her despicableness.

She was a monster. She was a shame. She would never think herself good again, and all hopes she held to eventually be able to say she was died with that man.

The cabin as still red with his blood and Ide gagged at the smell, shivered at the thought and cried for him. Even he didn't deserve to die. She stayed there, rubbing a damp cloth on the wood, scrubbing till her knuckles hurt, till her hands bled to replace that of the man who died here, to make it even. She scrubbed the floor, inflicting upon her all the pain she could, crying, afraid the man came back to haunt the place. She worked the cloth around for hours, fixated on her task, mechanically forgetting everything around her, but the red wood.

She worked like a madwoman until she heard his voice in the house; his pained voice, calling for her, for any help. Her heart skipped a beat and she ran out towards him.

“What now?” she said panicked in front of a convulsed Roland. “Roland!” she yelled as her blood iced in her veins.

He was shaking on the bed, drooling and tried to talk but the words lost themselves in his throat as a dreadful aftermath to a forgiven physical effort overtook him. He tried to reach for Ide, to call for her aid, and although she was glad he quit calling for other doctors, Ide couldn't help being frightened. It seemed his muscles did not appreciate his wielding a heavy sword, and it seemed his heart was caught between rest and action.

Ide swiftly fetched the sleep potion, added a few other drops of a beverage to relax a body shaken by anxiety, helped Roland stand up and poured the beverage down his throat. He swallowed, but he still quivered and Ide, amidst whimpers, wincing and groans of pain massaged his doleful limbs until he was calmer again. Now, her mind was too busy to even think about the blood she spilled.

“If you wanted to distract me,” she said. “You succeeded.”

Roland gave an amused laugh. “Yes. It seems I did.”

“Now, sleep. You need it.” she said.

“Don't drink.” he whispered as his eyelids grew heavier. “Watch over me.” he murmured.

“I will.” Ide softly said.

And just like that, he fell in a deep sleep with no dreams to haunt him yet. And above him was Ide, with a pint of ale in her hand she considered with doubt. Somehow, now that Roland showed gentleness, the ale she used to drink when she felt the urge of it lost its flavor. She didn't trust him yet, and kept the sword far from his hand, but for the first time she was actually glad to have him in her house.

 

Another storm brew in the sky, its cold refreshing gales making their way between the trees, it's dark clouds betokening of something violent to happen. While the sky darkened, Ide took care of Roland. His condition slightly worsened but it wasn't enough to worry her. Everyday she fed him well, changed his bandages, gave him strengthening beverages and tried to help his muscles recover. She was satisfied that after a day, Roland could stand up again. She had no doubt he would soon walk, although he needed to regain his muscle mass. In the meantime, she massaged his legs and his arms to relax them and get them used to physical effort.

Roland was getting better and each second she spent tending him, harvesting or merely busy to some task, she forgot to drink as much as before, and her mood only lightened. Now, she felt she was able to smile and even to laugh; even with this silent and growing craving in her core.

At night, the one eyed man came to haunt her, and each night, she awoke in the silence of the forest, panting and soaked with sweat, panicked and crying; and each night, Roland slept by her side, stunned by the sleep potion Ide deemed he needed. His nights were calmer. Not hers.

It was true his presence soothed what she did, but it still pained her like an arrow piercing her heart. She killed. She could keep her mind busy all she wanted, but she killed; and she drank in shame at night, and stopped after a cup of it. If she kept drinking, she would all her stock and it would only leave her with some kind of disgusting half-brewed piss she was ashamed of.

Roland was no better. Even dreamless nights couldn't rid him of those demons dancing within. Everyday he felt them, and everyday he tried to be good to Ide, just like Christ would Mary Magdalene; to follow His example and redeem himself and be born anew. It was hard for him when he had lived among hate and cruelty and barbaric deeds for years, when his body was scarred to the point he could almost see faces on his skin, but still he tried and he felt somewhat better about himself.

One night, Ide deemed he did not need the sleep potion anymore. He was well enough to survive his night terrors. She regretted it that night; dearly.

Roland, after an hour of twists and turns in the bed, trying to sleep, screamed with terror in the middle of the night after a great thunderous noise, announcing the beginning of a violent thunderstorm. He almost shook, panted, whimpered and whined as he kept his eyes firmly closed. He cried and sobbed and screamed some more, awakening Ide who instantly regretted every single decisions of hers and who tried to awake him considering the violence with which the nightmare took him. She yelled his name again and again, but he was caught, trapped and entangled in a net he couldn't get out of.

Ide hastily fetched cold water under the downpour and the loud clattering fury of the storm, her path lit by every lightnings that struck the earth. She splashed it on his head and he finally awoke with a yelp.

He tried to catch his breath and regain his calm in the bed, to erase his brief panic and when he succeeded in calming his nerves, he crouched himself on the bed, shivering, almost sobbing, muttering words to cope with the terror.

“God is my king. God's arms my home. God dwells here.” he sobbed. “God dwells here. He dwells here.”

Ide gave a long breath of relief and sat on the bare wooden floor, swallowing a sob, trying to wipe off the sweat and water from her forehead without any success with the soaked sleeve of her dress. “It was a mistake not giving you the beverage.” she said.

For answer, she only heard him mutter prayers and invoking God's name. Ide gave a groan “Why do you pray Him?” she asked. “He won't help you.”

Roland turned to her with haunted eyes and gave a sigh. “I pray Him because I have faith. That is enough to me.”

“God doesn't exist.” Ide grimly said, looking away. “If He did, then nothing bad would happen.”

“I do not agree.” he replied. “Everything bad that happens is at the fault of men only. We once lived in paradise, Ide, but one mistake, one tiny awakening of man's most profound despicable nature brought us all out of this haven. It is man's fault there is darkness. God created this world as good and pure, men turned it into Hell.”

Ide looked at him. “You seem not to have faith in your fellow being.” she concurred.

Roland smiled. “I have seen all.” he said. “I have seen the cruelty of men. Yes, I guess I lost faith in my fellow beings, but it does not mean I have no faith left. You for example, you saved me. You brought me back to life and you protected me. If there is any good left in this world, it is through selfless people like you, through the peaceful days of the year, harvests, smells and all the small things that makes you see life as worth living. Or at least, that is what I believe; what I drawn out in conclusion to the crusade.”

Ide looked down and brought her knees to her chin. “You are wrong.” she whispered. “It was no selfless act to save you. It was selfish.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“I did it for me. Not for you.” she sighed. “You know, I used to pray God, to attend mass, to believe in him even though I was receiving Samar's teachings.” she confessed.

“What changed?” his voice was calm and soothing and she was almost entranced by its sounds.

“Everything.” she said. “It changed when I realized my prayers had no effect and it changed when I realized praying was useless, for there was no God. What God would condone the death of innocents? Of children? What God would spread a plague to kill His children? No God at all.”

Roland was intrigued. If there had been a plague there, then it was when he was in crusade. He wondered if Stephen survived and if his brother and sisters did too. He wondered how his father and mother went through this trial and he wondered why, if it had happened so long ago, no one came to inform him of that. He wondered if Constance survived it too and a hint of guilt stung him.

“That is why,” she continued. “I don't believe and lost my faith. Even Samar's old goddess cannot sway me. There are no gods in this world, only pain.” she buried her head between her knees “If God exists, he left long ago.”

Roland gave a sigh. “I still hold on to my faith. It is my beacon and the only thing that keeps me from insanity. If I lose it then I am lost myself.” he said. “You may think God as dead, but I know he still lives in every single one of us. There is always a hint of goodness in men and women. If he doesn't, as you believe, then I would die.”

“Why?”

Roland hesitated. If he confessed all his sins, then he as afraid his redemption may never come. He couldn’t let her know that. He couldn’t lower the veil and reveal how despicable, how horrid he was. “I sinned.” he confessed, weighing all his words carefully. “I sinned during the crusade and I need redemption. Following the teachings of Christ is the only way to that. I cannot lose faith. If anything, the crusade strengthened it.”

“Why?” she asked again.

“Because amidst hatred, I found love.” he said, thinking about Hugues. “I guess, since God is love, I was shown the ultimate proof of his existence.”

Ide shrugged. “Whatever you believe.” she said. “It won't make me recover faith.”

Thunder rumbled outside and Roland inhaled sharply. The demons stopped dancing but still, he was afraid of thunderstorms and had been ever since he was a child. He always said it reflected God's anger with men.

“What is this goddess Samar believes in? Why does she worship a pagan idol?” he asked, closing his eyes trying to distract himself of the sound.

The rumbling started again and Ide closed her eyes, relaxed by the calm chaos above. “It is an ancient goddess.” she said. “Samar claims it has been worshiped way before men began to worship your god. She is said to be a mother, a warrior and a maiden. It is said she is wise beyond reason and people used to pray to her for fertility.” her lips hesitated to deliver a smile. “Samar says she is she who gave us life. She says she is magic incarnate embodying life itself.”

Roland frowned. “That is heresy.” he said. “There must be but one god.”

Ide tilted her head. “Why must it be?”

Roland opened and closed his minds, trying to find his words, trying to explain his reasons. “I... There must be but one god. Otherwise, nothing is legitimate anymore and there is no meaning anymore.”

“So life is not legitimate to you?” Ide asked, almost mocking while the sky rumbled above, seemingly laughing.

Roland grew irritated, both because of Ide's mockery and questions, but also because of his nervousness regarding the thunderstorm. “Oh course it is!” he said as a great thunderous crash resonated across the forest, joined with a lightning bolt. “I mean... Life is precious and I know that! I simply believe that God embodies all!” he clenched his teeth. “God is love but He also made life!”

“There must be two for life to be given. Why wouldn't a second god be legitimate in such a case?” she asked as she savored every thunder sound echoing throughout Normandy's lands.

“I don't know!” Roland yelled. “I don't believe in it! That is all! Stop questioning me!” he closed his eyes and kept them shut as he startled every time thunder struck, clenching his teeth, almost whimpering with fear. God was angry. He was angry at him because he was beginning to question his beliefs and everything he did in His name. He was angry because he was at fault.

There was a minute of deafening silence and Ide's eyes grew serious and bitter. She stood up and looked at him from above, locking her eyes to his.

“All gods are legitimate.” decreed Ide. “Or none are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this quite dense chapter. Ide and Roland have yet much to talk about but they'll get there, trust me. I mean, they need to fall in love right?


	7. The soft breeze of summer

Now that those who sought Roland dead were buried deep into the ground, Ide relaxed and finally lowered her guard, considering eventually going to the great yearly fair in the village. It was the time of harvest and for such event merchants from all over Normandy to even Fecamp came to sell their goods to people who never went out of the countryside and never ventured elsewhere than the lands of their lord. It was usually the time for the prior and his monks to sell their own ale and for Ide to manage alone to sell honey, mead and fine ale to people. Each fair she dreaded to face them, and each year, she made more money than them.

Ide bustled around for two days, bringing together barrels of mead, of ale and spiced beer, jars of honey and bags of herbs. She packed, cleaned the cart still brown with Roland's blood, picked up a dress fit for a festive mood, all the while tending a recovering Roland who could now wander around, with slow steps, carefully measuring his strength. Ide was glad he began to walk again. And sometimes, when his eyes crossed hers, he gave a thankful smile that warmed Ide's heart, and she drank less.

Now, Roland ate twice as much as before and often, Ide gave him smoked fish or meat in order for him to get all of his muscles back. She still wanted to get rid of him as fast as possible, for if his presence was now more pleasant, she still longed for loneliness and her beloved destruction.

She drank a pint of ale for strength and courage. The world of men was merciless and she tried to remember only her could destroy herself. The others had no power over her, she tried to convince herself.

“Must you always drink so often?” asked Roland on the bed, with more warmth in his voice than harm.

Ide rolled her eyes. “Must you always talk about this?” she groan. “I told you before that I could handle this. I do not drink that much and as I told you, ale...”

“... is safer than water anyway.” finished Roland, half amused. “I know. I heard you.”

Ide rolled her eyes. “The sword is under the bed if you want to take it and leave.” she grumbled.

Roland gave a deep laugh. “Alas I am afraid you will bear with me for a bit longer. I am not fully recover now, although your healing was flawless.” he grew sad. “I cannot express how grateful I am. I did not deserve your saving, but I am grateful for it. Again, I am sorry about my mistrust.” he pleaded.

Ide shrugged. “I told you before, I saved you for myself.”

Roland gave half a smile. “Say, pray for me when you see Christ's cross. Pray for my soul and redemption, even if you don't believe. Do it for me.”

Ide groaned. “You still believe? After what we said?”

Roland grew serious again. “I do. I will never abjure my faith. If I doubt, I still believe.”

“I wish I had your confidence sometimes.” thought Ide out loud.

Roland kept silent. There was so much he didn't know about her and her demons and there was so much he had not told her. He wanted to share, somehow, but he feared that they were not yet close enough for that connection he grew longing for. Besides, there was still so much mistrust he needed to make amend for. He needed to make up for a lot of things and he had decided he would begin with Ide, for she saved his life and was an envoy of Christ upon his redemption. If he mended his wrongs, surely that would mean something.

He played a warm smile, though it felt real. “I bid you sell well.”

Ide turned and narrowed her eyes. His voice and smiles were so honeyed she doubted it was even real. He was so soft now, so different from that wounded man always seething insults and throwing his mistrust at her. He was so different from that ball of anger, that wounded lion that bit every time he was in pain. And then there were his eyes, still haunted but so full of hope. Ide almost cried realizing that she could be like him, hopeful, but she was bitter and crossed a line long ago. She could not come back. She had embraced the void.

“There is stew on the table, and ale nearby. Do not empty my stock.” she said, tired already.

“I will guard your house.” he said.

“I have no house.”

A gentle breeze blew outside of the house, between the trees and into the clearing. The air was colder, nicer than the relentless furnace of the early days of summer and the storms had washed the sky of its eternal blue for clouds to grow yellow, pink or orange with the sun. The season of storms had passed for now, but summer was not over and Ide knew from experience never to expect everything to go smoothly.

She took her cart and it seemed heavier than usual. Ide hoped she had not grown too thin for this kind of task: she would not be able to sell a lot if were it the case.

Night walked beside her until she reached the end of the clearing and she looked back, to her house, and Roland, inside of it, for whom she was still worried. Her house was an odd one, old and crooked, made of turfs and planks and thatch, alone, out of place between the trees, between the wild, as if it did not belong here. As if it had never belonged here.

She gave a look to her well and saw that it was yet still empty. It would never swell, not like the river and the fountain deeper in the forest.

Ide gave a sigh. A house reflected its owner Samar said. What did it say about her?

The forest was calm as ever and Ide's stomach tightened with anticipation to the bustling of the village, their looks, their whispers and their reminder that she was amiss in the picture. She almost gagged but kept her pace as quick as before, pulling her heavy cart to the very core of the village where the fair would take place. Ide was scared, terrified even, of those people who thought her malevolent.

Nothing awaited her there, she thought, nothing but sorrow. Mahaut's face came into her mind, then Mary's. She would see them today, and perhaps they would visit their parent's pyre with Mary. It was so long since Ide last spoke to them. Perhaps Mary's children would have grown, perhaps Mary wouldn't blame her for her miscarriage, perhaps Mary would be glad to see her and embrace her, shelter her for a fleeting moment. Ide missed her touch and her warmth, her gentle embrace upon the world. If she met Roland, the two of them would surely be friends.

Ide sighed. She had left a place of mistrust from her part for another from other's. If felt as though the worlds were reversed and she dozed half asleep half awake, not knowing where reality laid and if she was a ghost or a living. Yet something for Mary's embrace to fix.

Dark thoughts brewed in her mind, as always and she drank two cups to drown them and shut it. Before she realized it, she was in the village, with its low wall, in the middle of small fields bordering the forest, a gentle lazy slope against the steep volume of a wooden hill. It was a peaceful valley and Ide could almost see the priory to the right, and thought she could the manor of Roland's family, although it was much too far away for eyes to see. She saw it, merely saw it, waiting for him to come back, and Ide thought that Roland should head there as soon as possible.

The sooner he would leave, the sooner she would forget about the blood she shed, the murder she did, her blood-soaked hands and the hollow eyes of the dead. She shan't let Mary know that, or Mahaut, as much a hunter as she was, or anyone beside Roland. Only him would understand. Only him would speak of murder, of consciousness, of necessity with her. Only him shared this blood shed with her.

Perhaps she needed him after all. He was her redemption and now he was a guardian to her soul. Only him knew.

Yet, she wanted him to leave; she wanted him to leave and she wanted to cease to exist. They were right at the village, she was a killer. The dead were her fault and she was cursed. They were right.

As she formulated the thought, she passed through the same ruined gates to enter a bustling village full of joy, of songs, of laughter and of mistrust aimed towards her. People glowered at her and as much as her skin had hardened against their hate, she felt it and the dead man she buried in the forest gave them reason. She began to sweat. What if they found out? What if they found out and hung her?

Good riddance, she felt. Good riddance of the cursed witch, she who slew, who devoured, who killed, the bringer of death and sorrow. Her own was her fault, why should she cared about herself when she was the one who made herself suffer? Ide wanted to bite herself and maybe cut one of her fingers for pain, but not here, not now, when she would be back in the forest, unseen. Now, she must play a smile for Mary and act an innocent witch full of sorrow for Mahaut.

She needed a drink if she wanted to survive the day.

She walked past houses in building on one of the four great alleys dividing the village, striding towards the great place, not so far away from Mahaut's house, farther to the fields, a bit outside the walls, next to the road to the manor. There were farms there. There was enough space now for all of them, and it had become the neuralgic core of the town, now with the blacksmith and the baker newly set there.

The square was large enough for a lot of merchants to come and among them, Ide saw those men from the North and their furs, those other men like Samar, and others with darker skin, sheltered under their stalls of spices, fragrances and other exotic delights which almost made Ide dizzy with marvel. They all wore rich fabrics, silks embroidered with gold and fine colored threads, wrapped in expensive furs and their stalls were large and overwhelmed with goods to trade. Some even had gold jewels.

Ide was wearing a simple blue dress. Ide did not have a stall, only her cart. Ide was here to sell ale and mead; to survive another winter. That was all.

The center of the fair was crowded which left Ide nothing but a scarce space almost outside of the village. She doubted someone would even buy what she sold. She knew the townsfolk would not. She was amiss there, like her house and the lonely clearing in the forest.

A little girl ran there, her hair crowned with flowers, playing with another girl, while little boys pretended to be knights at war. Ide gave half a smile. It made her think of Roland. They laughed and played pretend with innocence, their smiles bright and full of happiness while the river snaked lazily somewhere, its ripple sounding as laughter. Ide was like them once. Once was dead.

No one stopped by her stall for trade among the white faces around. They all knew her, all believed she was to be ignored so that mischance and strife do not befall them, they would not want anything to do with a woman whose black hair was seen for some as a symbol for malignity.

A man who came from the north, with his pale skin, his pale eyes and pale hair, towering over them all came and took three casks of her mead, and one of her ale, another, with the same complexion as Samar and wearing too warm a clothing for Summer, with a fur cloak and a curved sword at his belt came and took honey while another, of a brown complexion and wearing a strange hat for clothes entirely made of fur draped around his body came and took three barrels of ale, producing large coins with the sigil of Constantinople.

They all spoke different languages Ide could not understand, but she saw in their eyes that they were kind, and that they felt like herself, amiss in this town. For a moment she wondered what their lands looked like, she wondered what of her life if she joined them. Then she remembered Roland and his life she strove to save. She could not go. It would not do him well.

She could not go, for there would always be something binding her to this land, whether the ghost of herself, or a man she was healing back to life.

After the three first men, a few others came, some coming from Paris, other from London, and some from Rouen. They were all rich merchants dressed finely and looked pleased and interested in the goods she sold. They bought less but paid more and Ide thanked them for that.

Across the field, the bald monks of the priory glared at her, seethed and frothed with hatred and resentment. She had sold more than them already and they had been there longer than her. It was her peculiar figure that attracted the merchants around. Who could resist a lonely woman with too much ale to sell than her arms could bear? Few men, and they all lived in that town stifled with dark rumors.

Ide saw them talk gravely and most certainly with a seething hatred, and lowered her eyes, avoiding their sight. She was terrified but tried to keep it under her control. They had power here, when she was usually nothing, and it showed, for all went to them for goods and ale for some, for others for blessings. They were men who spoke the word of God. They were the masters of minds.

Around her the world vanished as they looked at her. She saw them and them only and her blood iced in her veins. She could feel their anger. She almost gagged, almost shed a tear. In their eyes, she saw her death.

“You came.” said a calm soft voice full of warmth.

Ide turned and suddenly a wave of love and affection took her. “Mary.” she marveled.

“It has been long. Too long.” she said while embracing her sister.

Mary was a short woman, buxom with a tan complexion, her long black hair cascading on her back with curls, with grace fit for beautiful women. Mary as warm in everything, in skin, in eyes, brown as wood, shining under the sun, resembling a hearth, and even in motion she was warm. Mary was everything and when she saw her, Ide wanted to dwell in her arms and rest there for a bit longer. It felt good in her arms, as good as home, as good as by a fireplace.

Ide released her and gave her a look. She still bore the signs of miscarriage. Her eyes were circled with black, her cheeks had grown gaunt and her belly still bore the sign of pregnancy, flapping as if the skin had been emptied. Ide faltered and her eyes grew wet. Mary made her think of Roland when he woke up from his feverish sleep. Ide knew Mary almost died. She had that tired voice, there were signs too big to hide.

Guilt came, crushing and unforgiving. It was her fault, Ide thought, it was her fault Mary suffered.

“Don't cry.” said Mary as she wiped off tears rolling down Ide's cheek. “It wasn't your fault. It has never been your fault.” her voice was calm and gentle. Ide doubted she ever deserved it.

Ide sobbed and sniffled. “It is. It was. It is better with me away.”

Mary looked down. “No. You are wrong about that.” she confessed. “I miss you.”

Ide cried more hearing it. It added to her guilt that Mary should be so unhappy, and it was her fault. Ide gave uncontrollable sobs, distressed by Mary's undying love and moved that Mary should not resent her.

“How much have you sold today?” asked Mary to change subject.

Ide looked at her, her pale blue eyes almost white with her tears. “Enough for Winter.” she said as she took a goblet of ale, then two, then three. “I have some more honey and a barrel of mead beside this one of ale.” she showed the barrel she drank from. “It is good ale.”

“Good.” said Mary. “I will trade goods with you against your mead and honey. Now come, I am still in recovery and I cannot carry all.”

Ide gave a sharp breath and followed her older sister, carrying her cart, glad that she took control over their conversation, glad to e away from the monks' death glares. With Mary they crossed the village and headed towards the road that led to the manor, towards a house leaning back to a forge, a few houses from the wall circling the town. The air was rancid there, Ide wrinkled her nose with disgust and thought it better in the forest where it was purer and less stifling with body odors, sweat and shit.

“Say, come inside to put the honey in the storage room.” said Mary.

Ide looked around, frightened. “Your husband?”

Mary shrugged and brushed off the remark with her hand as though it hardly mattered. “He is at the fair with the children. He won't be back for an hour.”

Ide complied to her sister's orders and tidied the mead and honey where Mary told her to. The house was small compared to that of Mahaut, but it had a separate room to sleep and a second floor they used for grain and other dry food stocking. An hearth with smoldering embers radiated light against the wall of one side of the house and Ide could feel the fire of the forge there, adding to the warmth of this house. It was so different from that of the forest, it was larger, with more stools, a table, shelves, a barn, a room, furs covering the bed, roses drying all over the house, with tapestries in the making, a loom and even polished iron as a mirror, with bowls of water to clean one's face. It was larger, warmer and more alive. It was all that Ide wasn't.

“You have grown thin.” Mary noticed. “Come sit down and eat. I have bought pastries today and some sweets from those Arab merchants.”

“Do you have ale instead?” asked Ide. “I am thirsty.”

Mary gave her a stern look, a rare sight, and poured some milk in a goblet. “No.” she said. She went to fetch those pastries she talked about and gave some to Ide, rolls of crispy dough with pieces of apple on it, served with heavy puffy cream, dripping with butter and fat, smelling temptation and gluttony. “Eat, now. Your health scares me.”

Ide lowered her eyes and bit into the pastry with a groan of sheer delight. It was so soft, so sweet against her tongue she felt as though she had just dipped into the most comfortable of beds and took three pounds. Mary then served her a sugary sweet, a fig marmalade stuffed into a thin layer of fried bread. It was too much sugar for her taste, nevertheless she ate with pleasure, happy to discover new flavors, dazzled by the new, the sweet crisping between her teeth with a pleasing satisfaction.

Mary smiled as she saw her eat what she offered her. “Come.” she said standing up. “I need to walk.”

Ide frowned. “You shouldn't bustle around so much.” she said. “You just miscarried.”

Mary shrugged. “I need fresh air.” she said. “I have been home ever since and now is my first day of freedom outside this stifling house. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

“You do me too much honor.” said Ide. “Your caring reminds me of Mahaut and Samar.”

Mary smiled. “I am glad there are people here who care for you. God knows what you would become if you let yourself d..” the word died on her tongue, not daring enough to pronounce such ill omen. Mary swallowed a sob. “I couldn't live with it.” she said, her tears barely kept at bay. “I couldn't bear to lose you. Not you.” her voice sounded desperate and pleading. She had lost enough.

Ide lowered her eyes with remorse that she made her sister suffer so much, and they walked in silence past the scarce houses within the walls, towards the fields beyond, stretching to the horizon, merely stopped by the fringe of the forest, Ide's dwelling. They circled the outer city, passed a farm which was thriving and another which had been attacked and burned down a few months ago. The charred ground testified of strife here, no wonder the townsfolk had decided to build a wall. It was a sweet day of summer and a gentle breeze blew the fields of wheat that danced like a sea of grain. Ide sighed. It almost felt good.

They kept walking until they stopped in front of a charred ground marked with a cross made in haste with wooden planks. Ide shivered and faltered. Mary took her hand for courage.

“Mother, father,” she said, calm and mourning. “I brought you Martha. She goes by the name of Ide now. It suit her well. You would love it.” she turned and gave her sister a warm look, her eyes filled with tears. “You would love her.” she turned back to the charred ground, the remain of the pyre the dead had been burned on. “You would scold her if you were here, for she drinks too much and wallows in her own pain. But she forgets that I understand that pain, that I can share it, that I feel it. She forgets that she is not the only one feeling alone. Mother, you would scream if you heard what they say about her. You would rage and told them all off.” she gave a small smile. “Father, her ale grew better and you would most certainly beg for more. She has become the best brewer across the land, and a most proficient healer.”

Ide swallowed a sob and gulped her bile, hardly fighting against a void that seemed to overtake her. She gave a sharp breath. “Mary.” she begged, almost silent. There were no need to talk to the dead. They couldn't hear.

“Jack,” Mary continued with sweetness. “You should have been ten this year. You were good, so good God called you by his side with Marguerite and Mathilda. I pray you will find solace in Heaven and that you shall guard us. Say, take care of my unborn child. Watch over it even if it has not been named or baptized. Guard over my son and daughter and those to come.”

Ide turned to her, aghast that she should try again so soon. Mary gave her a smile.

“I intend to try again. Don't blame me, don't blame yourself.” she closed her eyes. “Our parents wouldn't want you to dwell on their deaths, blaming yourself for it, nor our brother and sisters. I miscarried such as it often happens with women. I will try again.”

Ide lowered her eyes. “What if you die in childbirth?” she asked, instantly regretting the plea, for it would bring ill luck.

“Then you shall accept it, look up to the sky for me and blame me for leaving you, and if you blame yourself, I will see that a lightning bolt strike you.” said Mary. “I shall not bear your culpability.” she gently embraced Ide. “I want children. I want you to meet them.”

Ide swallowed her tears. “I wish what you show me was true. I wish they could hear you. But they cannot. Mary, they are all dead and my future lies there, with them.”

Mary hushed her. “They are alive if I believe so. They are alive if we are. I chose to keep my faith embedded in me, do not take that away from me.” she looked up at the sky. “They have traveled to other land, to Heaven. Just because you don't believe, it doesn't make it so.”

Ide almost smiled. Mary was like Roland in a way, her faith held close to her heart, still believing through hardship. She had been right. Her sister would get along well with him.

“Tell me,” said Mary. “What do you remember about them?”

Ide's memory ran through decades before she found that one memory that always made her smile. “When father ran after Tom across the farm. Poor man was just asking for my hand.” her eyes grew sad and agonizing. “Then, they died.” Tom was there, burned along with her family, as though they truly were married and he had been part of her family. But they never married. He had died a month before they should have wed. The farm had been sold and Tom's dream of brewing beer with her had shattered and burned with him. That brewing knowledge, she got it from him.

“I am sorry.” said Mary. “Your wedding would have been something amazing to see. We would have feasted and drank all night and Jack would have sung and Mathilde would have danced and Marguerite kept her usual calm. The farm would have been so bright.” she gently wrapped an arm around Ide. “And you would have had other children.”

Ide stirred in her arms and let go of her tears. They rolled down her cheeks, her eyes fountains and her soul emptied. “Please.” she implored. “Please don't shatter my heart more.”

Mary stepped back and lowered her eyes, crying silent tears. “I am sorry.” she whispered. “I miss them too. Why,” she said, crying at the sky. “Must they have left us so soon? Why must we suffer their losses and that of our innocence?”

Both shared a soaked look and sat there, on the ground, weeping in each other's arms, keeping silent for what seemed like an eternity while the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, while the grass danced around them and the charred soil stood still and dead despite the breath of air. They cried together, their grief an even weight.

“Come back to live with me.” said Mary after a long moment of silence. “I need you here to remind me of my family and what I haven't lost. Come back with me and heal me and my children when we are unwell. Without you, I am lost.” she sobbed but suppressed it instantly. “Come. I shall feed you, you shall heal me and help me have more children. Without your care, with that of those men of God claiming to be able to heal, I will lose more to be sure.”

Ide swallowed. That same guilt, always. “I cannot.” she croaked. “If I come back, it will all start again and there will be sorrow, darkness and death. I am cursed. I do not want that to befall you. I treasure you too much.”

Mary's eyes grew sad and dark. “They are wrong.” she declared. “They are stupid and so wrong. Those are the thoughts the monks of the priory want everyone to believe but they are wrong. They can all choke on those lies.”

Ide gave a smile. It was always funny hearing Mary being mad at something. “I want to remain in the forest.” she said. “It suit me.”

Mary gave a sad smile. “Well, perhaps it is for the best then.” she said. “The town is not safe anymore, now.” Ide turned and gave her a confused look. “Children are dying here. Many women lost theirs in child-bed, and many lost them soon after they were born, from a disease of some sort.” she sighed. “Maybe the town is stifled with people and cannot bear more.” she suggested. “Peter wants to move out for the children. He wants to settle in Caen.”

Ide opened her mouth as to say something.

“I know.” Mary cut her as she saw her mouth open. “But it isn't your fault. You are not cursed and the only thing against you is yourself.” she looked at her ring. “For now, leaving for Caen is a mere idea and our minds are not fixed on that. Just know that you are welcome to come with us if we go.”

“Samar.” began Ide. “And Mahaut? What of them if I leave? What of my house? What of my cat?” what of Roland? What of the dead? She clung to them as a king to his crown.

Mary gave a sigh. “One day, I hope, you will come back to us, from this dark dwelling of yours. Samar would agree. Mahaut would agree.” she glanced at the remain of the pyre. “Tom and Jack would agree.”

“I cannot leave.” said Ide, ending the argument. “I am thirsty. I need a drink. Let's come back to your house. I have seen enough of the pyre.” she shivered, not from cold, but from something else, darker, sadder.

Mary nodded and both headed back to the stifling town, walking between fields, between bushes, among lonely trees, while the white stone of the base of the wall colored with the sun. “I will see that someone guards you when you will go back into the forest, Peter, maybe.” she said. “We heard of some families missing sons who ventured there back to the manor. There are people calling for wolves, others for demons. Whatever it is though, it seems those men just vanished in thin air.”

Ide's blood iced in her veins and her heart hammered in her ribcage; her ears rang and she suddenly sweat cold. She knew where those men were buried. She knew who killed them. Roland and she would be targeted and asked about. Ide could no longer live with liability. She was a murderer, no less, no matter what Roland said. She would be tried and burned. She felt the ground opening under her feet, swallowing her like a gaping mouth.

“I don't think what they say is true.” said Mary. “I say those men have been eaten raw by the wolves. It happened before, I don't see why it wouldn't now.” she turned to Ide and saw her blanch face, her terror. “Do not worry. Nothing will happen to you.” she soothed, deeming that her face showed fear for her own safety regarding the wolves, and not the shame of murder.

“I need a drink.” croaked Ide, barely bearing her fears.

“We are almost home.” noted Mary. “I will give you more pastries and more milk.”

“Give me ale.” asked Ide. “I need a drink.” she said again.

Mary gave a sad sigh and nodded reluctantly. “I saw Mahaut this morning at the fair.” she said as to change subject. “She was walking beside a man about the same age as she, while Joseph and another man, older, walked behind them. She looked very pleased with the fur and the man with her. I believe they are here to negotiate their wedding. If so, they will get married soon. I heard that Joseph does not want to waste time on the matter.”

“I did not see her.” regretted Ide, somehow forgetting a about her guilt.

“Maybe she went riding with him to show him the countryside.” suggested Mary. “Given her temper, I hardly doubt it. Or she would have stayed home afterwards and talked with her sisters about this wedding to come, cooked or been to the washing place by the river to do some chores. Maybe her oldest sister taught her spinning or embroidery.” she shrugged. “I do not know. I saw her. I did not talk to her.” mechanically she caressed the wheat of the field beside her. “I will go see her tomorrow, I think. There is much I need to talk with her and I want to see that they are well fed and well clothed.”

Ide gave a faint grin. “You are always the same Mary. You are always so gentle, so kind.”

Mary looked up at the sky. “The world is mean enough. If I am not kind, who will be?” she turned and gave Ide a gentle smile. “I know you are kind. See? You came walking with me. You helped me walk and recover. Healing is kindness Ide. It is compassion and it is virtue. You are good.” her eyes grew stern and serious. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

What if I tell myself, thought Ide. After all, if so many were against her, maybe they were right. Around her, everything was suffering. She was an accursed abomination and did not belong there. She killed a man and became a monster. She brought death and sorrow.

She told herself, like a death sentence.

They kept walking under a reddening sky, while the fresh breeze of summer slowly died for a fresh night to come over. They walked, singing, sometimes, picking flowers for Mary's house, talking about Samar and Mahaut's eventual wedding. Ide thought it well, although, out of selfishness she longed to keep her friend with her forever. If Mary and Mahaut were gone, then, to Ide the town was meaningful no more. Perhaps Mary as in the right. Perhaps she could join her.

“There she is!” Ide heard being yelled as she stepped into the town, passing the wooden gate. “The witch is here! She who cursed us all!” it was an old woman, buxom and fat, flaxen and red who screamed, seething with hatred.

One of the monks stepped forward with a satisfied grin. “Yes!” he claimed. “There she is! See how the demon tempts your so good Mary, this proof of virtue? See how she relishes in the death of her child? See how younger she appears? See! The devil has come and eaten your children!”

“How dare you?” Mary yelled. “How dare you all? I will not abide by it!” her eyes grew dark and her fist clutched.

“See? The demon has perverted Mary! It took her soul from God and the path to Heaven! See! It took her to the way down to debauch!” the monk yelled.

“Mary,” said Peter. “Come to me. Come before it is too late.”

Ide almost gave a grin, but she couldn't for fear controlled all her limbs and she stood there, frozen and cold, her heart hammering in her chest. “Told you so.” she murmured.

Mary opened her mouth to protest but shut it and reluctantly walked towards her husband, keeping her tears at bay, praying for Ide's protection. “Someone, please,” she begged, almost silent in prayer. “Someone save her.”

“See!” the monk kept yelling. “See how the virtuous keeps track of the path of God! See how she was beguiled and see how she came back for redemption! See and hear! Our word is that of God and God has prevailed against the devil. He who is almighty has claimed back our virtuous sister among his flock! The devil has been once defeated!” he gave Ide a malicious smile. “The accursed thing can no longer claim your soul for her false icon! May it be gone! May it be gone forever and may it never come back! May we defeat it once and for all! See! See how it falters when spoken the word of our true lord! See! God speaks through us! God has shaken it! The devouress, the monster, the demon who took your children for its bacchanalia shall be no more! Be gone!”

“Be gone!” yelled a woman.

“Be gone!” roared a man.

“Be gone!” chanted a child amidst the crowd, mimicking what other said, his voice rising among them all, more happy to be like everyone else rather than hateful towards Ide.

“Be gone!” cried the village.

Other monks came to surround Ide and some merchants, driven out of their stalls by the cries came to witness what was the commotion all about.

“She has taken my child!” yelled a woman with madness. “I will take her life!”

The second she spoke it, the woman ran to Ide along with other women and men and scratched her, bit her, beat her, wounded her with knives, thrashed her, punched and broke her nose. Ide drowned in a throng bound to kill her, each blow a painful agony. Her dress reddened, her blood poured to feed the cursed barren ground of the town, Ide was in pain and screamed it away. She heard them all around, beasts, frothing, yawling, growling, snarling, wolves on the hunt. Then, amidst savagery, she heard her, Mary and then Mahaut, in the distance, her scream joining Mary, a final desperate plea a chorus bound to save her.

“Run!” they begged.

The plea turned spell and Ide got out the the throng, screaming and weeping with effort, discarding all her worries that her cart was still there, covered with Roland's blood. All her limbs put in motion and wincing from her doleful flesh and broken bones, Ide ran, never turning back, her feet barely touching the ground, ran till she couldn't breathe, ran to the fringe of the forest, the forest; her dear forest, her haven, where she had always been safe. Ide ran as though the crowd followed her to burn her, she ran forgetting about her pains, ran, just ran.

Ide ran to survive. In the town, there was nothing but death. Her death.

 

Night was lazily purring on Roland's chest and mechanically, he pet him, savoring this peace and solace the cat brought with him. Whatever superstitions dwelt around black cats, Roland was now certain that they had been made up by someone once scratched by one. How could anyone think them ill luck when they brought such calmness.

When it became too hot in the house, Roland walked to the door and slightly opened it to enjoy the fresh breeze of summer and the sounds of the forest. It felt good, he thought. It felt good, this tranquility, this calm, this soft nothing. It felt good, this slowness of life, this idleness. It felt good to recover.

The storm was gone but the demons remained, idle as well in his core, silent but watching for any opening for their dance. Roland was content, for the first time since he left, he was content. Of course, he still mourned Hugues and his squire, slain by thieves in the south of France near Agues-Mortes, but summer seemed to revive him, to revive them. Roland knew Hugues had loved him, he knew himself had loved him, how could they not when they were so close? How could they not when the crusade hit its cruelest point? Hugues had been lost and Roland too and they had found solace in each other, that night in the tent, that cold night his body warmed his.

Roland had loved Hugues. More, perhaps, than any other man or woman. Hugues had been his friend, had been his anchor. Roland missed him.

A hint of shame tortured him when he thought about him, thought about Ide when he remembered his promise to Constance, the sweet Constance, the fair lady he had sworn to take as a wife before he went away to make a name for himself, to be deemed worthy or her and her ambition. She whose fair hair touched the ground, she whose grace showed how noble she was, she whose silk dresses were worthy of queens, she, enthralling and most certainly divine.

Constance was beautiful, this Roland could hardly forget. Nor could he the days he wooed her, the nights he spent riding among fields just to catch a glimpse of her figure behind the windows of her family's manor, for she was the daughter of an important baron who had been appointed earl by the duke Robert before Roland followed him to this damn crusade. Constance had been higher in status than Roland. She was higher in status no more. Roland had come back richer than ever, even with his treasure lost with his horse, probably stolen. Roland had lands in Syria, had riches and silks and was a knight of Jerusalem, a noble man, nobler than even his father.

Guilt and shame grew stronger. He was bound to marry Constance, his honor commanded it, his family and his wish to have a wife and children urged him to do so, but his feelings towards her were hazy and hesitant. Once he loved her like a madman, now was different. He had known too many women, loved too much to ever be confident in his will. Yet, he was bound to marry her, and he was bound to abide by it, even torn by changes of heart.

Roland wished his path were more safe and lasting, but it seemed that so far it had been made with fickle sand, always moving under his feet. His heart ran with anxiety and he drank the pint of ale Ide had left him to numb it. Time would tell. Roland chose to place himself in the arms of God. He trusted that He would guide him, as he had before, for he pondered if the crusade was ever a challenge for him to change and become a better man.

Perhaps even God had placed Ide in his way to guide him and to open his eyes. Perhaps she was the one to bring him salvation, an angel under the guise of a demon. Roland thought about her, her hollowed eyes, her plain face and red cheeks against a pale complexion, her averageness so different from Constance's cold beauty. Ide was warm in this, Ide's hair added to her simple charm. Ide was uncomplicated in her way. Roland liked that about her.

He gave a look to his sword earned through intense battles, that sword given by the new king of Jerusalem, that sword, testimony of what he sacrificed for wealth, that sword he had used to save himself, to save Ide. When it once showed how despicable he was, that sword's purpose now changed and Roland vowed to use it for the greater good. He would come back to his land when he will be fully recovered, take Constance with him – although he would miss this house and its witch greatly – and he would manage it as fairly as possible, and never impose upon his people a religion they did not choose. He would be a benevolent lord, such as Christ's teachings told.

Roland sighed. Those were many oaths he had taken. He would do well not to forsake himself on them.

He briefly considered the length of his hair and his beard. It had grown too long and Roland wished Ide was here and ask her to trim the beard. It scratched him. It perturbed him. Roland longed for Ide to come back soon.

To keep himself busy, he fed Night, fed himself, cleaned up the house a bit, taking breaks to rest, trained himself to walk, laid down when it became too painful. Yet still, thoughts roamed and lingered in his mind, the faces of Ide, Hugues and Constance constantly coming back to haunt him switching places when they deemed it right.

He spent his day thus, half-walking, half-meditating. Until, about the moment before the sun definitely disappeared below the horizon, when he grew worried about Ide and wondered when she would come back, he heard her run and slam the door behind her, falling on the floor of the house with great wails, howling and covered with sweat, tears and blood, laying on the floor like a corpse.

She panted and seemed unable to breathe, inhaled sharply breath after breath while her heart made bumps on her skin, hammering against her flesh.

When she was able to breathe normally again, she cried, wept and whimpered, her limbs weakened and broken. She howled misery and Roland faltered, agape, as he heard her agony. Then he saw. He saw large red marks, bruises, cuts and blood. He saw her and all he could see was pain. With a mere glimpse, he knew what had happened.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” he muttered, his voice hoarse with shock and bile. “Ide.” his voice held pity, showed pain.

She turned to him and yielded in despair, crying, begging with pleading eyes for him to shelter her, for someone to soothe the pain, someone to protect her; someone to tell her it would be okay. Ide took a pint of ale, swallowed it, then two, then three, then four, barely controlling her sobs and her tears. She wanted to forget. She needed to forget.

Roland took the fifth pint as she was about to drink it. Ide, aghast that he could stand with no pain so quickly, shocked and electrified by his gentle touch, this kind gesture stopped and looked at him. Roland drew her to his arms, shielded her against his chest, guarded her like some chivalrous knight would.

Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps she wasn't his salvation. Perhaps he could be hers.

“Ide.” he whispered in her ear.

“They were right.” she sobbed. “Their words were true and I should have been burned on the pyre. They speak true. Death surrounds me.” Roland's beard was wet with her tears but he did not care. Ide was falling apart, barely whole, barely full. “I am cursed.” in her mouth it resembled fatality.

“Who said so?” asked Roland although he fathomed the answer.

Ide sniffled against his warm chest, his warm chest growing with flesh. “The townsfolk.” she whispered as though she was naming a demon.

Roland pulled away to look at her and gently wiped off a tear from her face, covering his hand with blood, the blood of innocent, he deemed. He sat her on a stool and slowly fetched some water and a fresh cloth. He could walk yet still it hurt him. He would walk past that and help her anyway, he owed it to her.

He sat on the bed and gently, he cleaned her tumid face, reddening the water, the cloth and even the ground. It didn't matter now; all that mattered was for Ide to get better.

The freshness of water startled her and she flinched at the contact of his hand, of the cloth, winced when he was pressing too hard, and shivered as his skin touched hers, although it was no painful shudder but a mere sign of gratitude and content. He was gentle with her, he who slaughtered men, he who had been but scornful and heinous with her. He was gentle and he was kind. Ide would have cried with emotion if her eyes had not been dried out by her fear.

“Why would they say you cursed?” asked Roland as he worked on her face.

“Death surrounds me.” she said again, not daring enough to say why. It would revive it all.

“Ide.” Roland sighed. “If you keep it locked and caged, you will never be free of it.” he knew from experience, but his crimes, he thought, were much worse than Ide's and what he saw, he thought it could never match what Ide lived. “Tell me. I can help you.”

Ide shivered and gave a tearless sobbing breath. “The plague.” she said. “It killed so much of my own, so much of our village. You cannot imagine the chaos it was. I used to live there, to sell ale I brewed with Tom. The plague struck, I had been Samar's apprentice for some years now and the monks, the women of the village, even the men, they believed I did something wicked to my ale. They said I poisoned a few to kill the many. They said death surrounds me and that I relishes in the death of so many of our own, that I was a heartless creature, a witch.”

Roland winced. He had called her that once. Now that she told of it, his shame grew and he wished he could slap himself.

“Newborns are dying too.” Ide said. “They say I am the cause of it. They say I am cursed and that I am molded as the devil. They say I should not be alive, for if I keep on living, death will come back to that stifling town. I should not be alive. I should have burned on the pyre with my dead life.” she said, releasing the void. “I should die. All things would be better.”

Roland sighed. “I don't think so.” he said. “If you died, who would heal me? If you died, who would save us, wanderers, from the forest. If you died, many would miss you; Mahaut and Samar, for example. And your cat.”

Ide gave a groan. “Can't you see the obvious? I am cursed! The monks said so! The town said so! I bring death and sorrow! I should die!” she clutched her fists around the fabric of her dress. “They all died! Because of me!”

Roland gave an annoyed sigh, directed towards those idiots at the village, not clever enough to see how wrong they were. Ide was no cursed monster; she saved him when he did not deserve saving. He looked at her swollen face, ridden of blood and he closed his eyes, pained for her.

“You are wrong.” he said. “It isn't you who is cursed. It is the village.” the words came to his mouth with such a passion he entranced himself on them. “Think: back to the town, there is nothing but death, yet still, here in the forest, there is but life. You saved my life, brought me back from limbo. You are not cursed, for you did it. You are no bringer of death, Ide, you are a keeper of life.”

Ide scoffed bitterly. “I killed a man.”

Roland shrugged. “And how many more?” he asked. “I killed more than you, and so what you killed! You killed to protect, if I remember. You killed one man, but how many lives have you ever saved? You killed to protect me, what says you saved but one man? Perhaps you saved many with a life. If anything, I should be the bringer of death in this house. I killed more in a few years than you will ever in your life, Ide. You are not cursed. You are blessed.”

Ide winced. “But the town...”

“... Is cursed.” Roland declared. “The evil of the forest is mine and my demons' burden. Had I not come and thrust myself upon your house, you would have never killed.” It was easier saying to her, relieving her guilt than it ever was breathing. “You are not cursed, Ide, that I know. The world of men is.”

“How can you be so gentle with me?” asked Ide, almost begging. “Why so unsettling? Hate me all you want but I beg of you, do not deceive me with false kindness!”

Roland took her hand. “Ide,” he said. “I have never hated you, not truly. I was a wary beast, that is all. Now, I want to redeem myself to your eyes, to mend my wrongs. I want to be kind with my savior. There is no mischief in this, no deceit.”

“Is that so?” she scoffed. “This sounds so simple.”

“Yes.” Roland breathed. “It is this simple. Why should gentleness be complicated?”

Ide kept silent. There was nothing cunning or witty she could have said to prevail against his simple words. “Thank you.” she murmured, barely audible. “I guess.” she added.

“Do not thank me.” he said. “For it is I who must be thankful.” he gently stroked her cheek. “Now rest. I will guard the door of your dreams.”

His words echoed hers, reached months of strife and hardship, soothed the pain, soothed the void, filled her with a warm intuition that her night would be gentle. Roland, for all his fault was kind and the night only grew sweeter. The sun had set on the dreadful day and now the moon reigned above the crown of the forest. A soft breeze blew, bringing a glow of soft heat while wolves howled in the distance and owls softly hooted, the world of men gone and forgotten for that of nature to bloom and come alive again.

The forest was calm, the night calmer. For the first time, Ide's certainty regarding her so called cursed self faltered and she wondered if Roland was right, for how could anything tell her that she was cursed here? Here had been shed no innocent blood. Here was good. Here was true. Here was home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was quite an intense chapter. And OMG ROLAND IS SOFT WHO KNEW?????? It seems like they are growing infatuated and I can't wait for fluff to come!


	8. Renewal

 

 

One night, Ide reached the idea that Roland shall sleep through the sleep beverage no more. She knew his nightmares would come back, but she was convinced that it would not endanger his health and recovery. It was a week after they had bonded in murder. Roland ate normally, could shit at last and walk faster than before, though not for as long as he had during the crusade when he had no horse. His nights were fresh, but the flames of hell still licked his feet, calling for him to consume in his revelry, calling a siren song luring him towards his own darkness.

He waited for sleep that night, anxiously waiting for the nightmares to come. His heart thundered in his chest and even Hugues face, or Ide's voice could soothe it. He twisted and turned in the bed, looking for sleep to come, hoping it would come, dreading it to come. He groaned and whimpered, covered with sweat and sharply breathed, oppressed, crushed by anticipation and fear.

There was something missing, he thought. There was something missing for him to sleep. Before it had been Hugues, then he died, then his squire, then he died. He needed someone in that bed. Someone to hold him, to remind him of this life, this redemption. He needed the warmth of a hearth, not the inferno of Hell.

“Ide.” he called, a mere whisper spoken with softness, fondness even.

Ide stirred on her raw bed and frowned with concern. Was he in pain? Was he unwell? “What is it?” she replied, just as softly, coming by the bed. She placed her hand on his forehead, no fever.

Roland suddenly came alive as her fresh palm touched his skin and gasped for air as his heart seemed to miss a beat. He wanted more. He yearned for her and her presence. “Please, Ide.” he whispered. “I need you.”

Ide frowned. “I am here.” she shuddered. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Roland shook his head. “No. No nightmares but I am afraid they might come back.” he stopped, hesitant to ask a woman to share his bed, although it did not bother him before. What good Christian man would sacrifice the virtue of a maiden? He sighed, flustered. “I need you with me in this bed.”

Ide almost laughed, almost blushed. “Why would you say that?”

Roland's face reddened and he averted his eyes from hers. “I can't sleep without a presence with me to keep the nightmares at bay.” he confessed. “Please.”

Ide glanced back at her bed, just as hesitant as Roland to lay with someone. It felt odd. It felt as though she was his woman. Her heart gave a little lump in her chest, from fear of discovery, or apprehension to press her body against his, she didn't know. She only knew that his chest was now more than welcoming and that he asked for her. Ide bit her lips, worried her teeth on her flesh, digging deep, almost to blood and finally took a decision.

She removed the blanket and slipped into the bed, next to him, her mouth an inch away from his, so close to his face she saw his long eyelashes, his green haunted eyes, his full mouth, appealing, smelling of the stew she had served him that night. She coyly lowered her head, avoiding such intimidating sight, her hands between fists, between palms grazing his chest. Ide blushed and hid her face behind her hair.

In the bed, Roland was just as red. Her body was pressed onto his and he could drown in her ice blue eyes, lost himself in the white of her skin and fell into the black of her hair. He could feel her breath, her soft breath, still smelling of ale, but also of honey. Her hands against his skin electrified him and he doubted he would ever be able to sleep. He coyly put his chin on the top of her head while his arms mechanically wrapped around her.

Roland sighed with peace. Her presence by his side, pressed against him was just as soothing as Hugues' once had been. It did not bode well for his hammering heart. He felt good with her beside him. He felt good.

“Your beard is itching me.” groaned Ide, hiding her awkwardness.

Roland gulped. “Sorry.” he murmured. Her voice was soft and the air she blew tickled him. “You are tickling me.” an invisible smile echoed with his voice.

“Sorry.” breathed Ide. She was silent for a moment, while the usual soft sounds of the forest cradled them. “You should trim this beard, cut your hair.”

Roland closed his eyes and sighed. “I cannot.” he confessed. “Not alone at least. I was hoping you would help with that.” his hands caressed her bruises gently. She was healing well, perhaps better than he ever did and Roland marveled at her ability to protect life, even her own. Would she ever have children, they would be strong ones. Roland suddenly shook himself to chase the thought away and blushed, shocked that he dared think of her in such a fashion.

“Perhaps tomorrow.” Ide breathed. She grew silent and comfortable against him, she dozed off, almost sleeping relaxed by a soft breeze and his soft and warm breathing.

“Ide.” he whispered again, breaking night silence. He closed his eyes and breathed in her hair. He shivered with comfort. “Are you awake?”

“Now, yes.”

“I still can't sleep.” Roland said, feeling the burn of tears pearling in the corner of his eyes. His chest convulsed between a sob and a sharp inhalation.

Ide felt his heart racing and placed her hand to feel it. “You are in fright. Why is that?”

“I don't know.” his voice betrayed the terror of a child. “I don't know.” tears rolled down his face.

“I think you know. Tell me then, what do you see in your dreams? What stirs your nights, what troubles your peace?”

Roland sobbed. “I can't...”

Ide grew silent and melancholy. “You would do well not to dwell in darkness and let someone show you the path home. It does you no good.” she said so for him but it resonated with her and she grew ashamed of her wallowing.

Roland nearly scoffed. “To think this just came out of your mouth!” he winced and gulped, eyes firmly shut. “If I told you, you would leave. You would see me a monster.”

“What says I will? Monster for monster, I am here, for I am a demon to some.” and her own torturer. “You can confide in me. The forest takes all, even secrets, even corpses, even life itself. The night can take your darkness, so can I.”

Roland bumped his forehead on hers. “What if you consume in it?”

“There is no harm you could do to me that I do not do to myself already.” she declared. “Get rid of your burden, drop it there and never look back.”

Roland gave a smile. “You speak poetry when sleepy.”

Ide played a gentle punch and Roland coughed to get some air back. He judged he misread her strength, for she was stronger than he ever suspected and he had no doubt she could have borne a mail coat.

Roland sighed, his hesitation vanquished. “I see demons dancing, I see them hauling me on a wheel covered with pikes, I see them froth and snarl like beasts, I see them drink my blood like a king would some sweet wine, I see them laughing, speechless, wordless, showing their bloody tongue to me while staring; I see them, their horns, their lion faces wry and ugly, human-like yet so frightening, I see red skin, red fur, red and flaming infernos all around, their tails a reminder of the wheel. I see them, and I see my debauch, my sins, the darkness of my soul.” more tears rolled down his cheek and mechanically, Ide wiped them off, circling his eyes with soft thumbs. Roland sobbed, barely hiding. What harm could crying do, when he was already seeing Hell? What harm could water do against a core set ablaze? Water put flames away, slew them and soothed the soul for things to be born anew. There was no shame in crying, for it eased pain.

Roland gave a febrile breath, yet still, Ide in his arms was more appeasing than not. He nestled over her body, holding her as he would a rock stranded amidst a heavy sea. Ide was there, Ide was warm and Ide was humming a song she knew Roland liked. It was one of Samar's songs, with a slow melody full of mystery, full of softness, of calmness and rippled gently in Ide's mouth, sublimed by her hoarse voice.

Roland's breath finally slowed and he relaxed, coiled around this woman who brought him good. “If you knew – if you could ever fathom the extent of my crimes...” he said, breathing against her ear with liability. “I relive them at night. The moon rises and I turn beast, it seems.”

“Sleep.” murmured Ide. “You talked too much tonight.”

He drew her closer, huddled over her, their bodies intertwined, Night coming to lay down between them. “Thank you.” he breathed.

Ide felt his heartbeat grow slower, heard his gentle breath cradled by Night's purring and even though he was sometimes shaken by tense muscles betokening of nightmares, Roland was calm and no longer cried. He merely frowned, clenched his teeth and sweat, now, and Ide relaxed as well, relieved not to hear the same night terrors again, glad that he kept it to himself, glad she was bothered only by his wet face and low whimpers.

His voice was changed, she deemed. It was lower, calmer, gentler and much more agreeable a sound. It was so full of intense emotions, yet so contemplative in a way. Ide heard him snore and thought that his night sounds were now more soothing than not.

Roland dreamed beside her. Ide pressed her forehead against his and left it there for a moment, gazing at his eyes, his skin and what made him himself, scars, broken nose and all. She did until she dozed off the sleep, still marveling at this man who showed her cruelty and kindness. That night was peaceful, full of softness.

 

Roland woke up with the warmth of sunshine piercing between the planks of wood of the door, with the tweeting and singing of birds, with Night lazily stretching; with Ide, sleeping beside him, her soft breathing merely a silent whisper amidst the quiet of the morning.

He hardly felt well rested, for the demons danced again, hazy amidst weak infernos, and he felt he would never in his life sleep well again, but Ide's presence, and the words he had spilled upon her in the evening had been but comforting and soothing. He had shared a piece of his burden and she had embraced it and discarded it, taken the demons by the ear and roared until they cowered weakly in his dreams. For that, he would always be thankful.

He watched her, so peaceful, so innocent, her face ridden of all troubles, her mouth flinching from times to times with dreams, and itchy hair. He watched her, so close to him, lost himself in her black hair and gently caressed her cheek, his calloused fingertips digging into her mane. Roland sighed. He longed to kiss her forehead and stay there with her forever. She was peace now and he thought her everything he had ever desired when in crusade.

Roland was at peace with her and relished in the softness of her warmth, her so familiar presence, now, bearing similarities with that of the people he had loved before.

He roamed her face with his fingertips, blessing each of her features, memorizing her, dreading the day he would leave. He had never slept so well since Hugues died. He wondered what it meant.

“You are tickling me.” she groaned hoarsely and grumpy.

He gave a soft laugh. “The sun has risen.”

“Ugh. It is too soon in the morning.” she grumbled and Roland had never thought her so charming as when she was awakening. She suddenly stiffened in the bed and gave a shriek while jumping out of it. “Roland!” she yelled in embarrassment. “Your morning wood!”

Roland almost laughed but turned red at once, covering himself. In shame he was silent and an awkward silence fell into the house.

He heard her drink but he restrained himself from commenting. Once he was less hard, he turned away and gazed at her figure, tidying her raw bed, cleaning the house and looking through a chest for clothes. He marveled at her, and discovered that she was graceful in shyness, and he wondered that it felt that it was the first time he truly saw her. The light fell on her like a divine halo.

He saw her take a dress out of her chest, one bright blue with scarce stains spattered over it, then another, dull and used to rags, covered with what he suspected was ale and blood, and another, of a cream shade, so white, so thin, so ethereal it resembled a shroud. He realized, as he saw her eyes filling with tears and the way she held it, that it was a wedding dress and pondered that maybe it truly was a shroud, the shroud of a dead future; one where she would have married and borne children. She held it close to her heart and gently placed it back in the chest, as she would a dead love in a coffin. That time was gone. Now was the time for things to be born anew.

Ide took another dress, just as dull as the one before, stained with fading mead and made of linen as compared to the dull one made with wool. She stopped on the threshold and still not looking at him she spoke. “I am going to change. Do it too. Since you can walk now, I will lead you to the river to cut your hair and trim your beard.”

Roland was about to retort something witty when she left the house for her small cabin of casks still fated to fairs and markets. He gave a grin and watched the empty frame of the door. He grunted and changed to a clean tunic he found in Ide's chest. It must have belonged to another man for it was too large for Roland and he had to tie a thin belt to keep it in place. His muscles still ached but it was nothing he couldn't handle, though he deemed he would need a staff to ease his walking.

“Are you dressed? Or are you taking your time like some fair lady?” Ide yelled outside.

“I am!” Roland laughed.

“Good! Now fetch me some scissors, some soap and a polished iron thing! They are in the chest!” she yelled.

Roland rolled his eyes and complied to her orders before he left the house as well, closing the door behind him, savoring for what seemed the first time in eternity the fresh air of the forest and the warmth of sunshine without the violent urge to thrust his blade into someone. He closed his eyes and let himself drift away, wander over the forest towards even the sky, a strong feeling of content embedded deep in his chest.

He followed Ide as she guided him through the forest towards the river, holding tight on his staff not to fall like some inane invalid. He had pride to spare and clung to it as much he did to his staff.

“What if we stumble upon thieves or murderers in the forest?” asked Roland. “What if we are attacked? I have no sword and no strength enough to spare to protect us.” to protect her.

Ide shrugged as she turned around a tree, and found a path to follow by the marks someone had carved there. “I am dead anyway. That wouldn't be a great difference. You, on the other hand, you could always say you are rich and ask to be ransomed.”

Roland scampered to reach her. “What do you mean, dead? Why must you be sad?”

Ide gave him a knowing look. “They died because of me. I lost so much and I don't see myself living anymore. I am just an immense void.” her lips twitched as she faltered to sadness and growing tears. “I am but a leaf, tossed around in a storm, shattered by gales, spattered across the world.”

Roland rolled his eyes. “I told you before, Ide. People die. It is the law of nature. You must walk past that and see not what you have lost but what you have.”

Ide scoffed as she strode faster. “You sound like Joseph.”

“I don't know who that is.”

“Mahaut's brother. The inn-tender.” Ide shrugged. “I haven't spoken to him since he told me that.”

“Well I most certainly hope you shall not do the same for me, for I am much pleased with our little talks.” said Roland with a large grin. “And I find your company most agreeable.”

Ide rolled her eyes. “How are your legs?”

Roland walked beside her, between trees, marching down a soft slope towards the sound of a rippling river. “Let's just say that I am happy I got the staff as a help.”

“Good. Save your breath, then. We are almost there.”

“I am quite surprised that your house must be so near a river.” said Roland. “I barely heard it in the house.”

“Naturally!” said Ide. “The trees stifle the sounds of it. But I take water to brew from the fountain. It requires climbing a steep slope to get there and I usually scratch my knees in the process, but it is worth it. It is there that water is the purest.” Ide groaned as she hopped above a fallen tree, burnt, struck by lightning. “Samar lives around there, far remote from any human presence.”

Roland lowered his eyes. He had behaved poorly with the old Saracen and now he saw in her all his sins and all the people he had killed. He wanted to make amends to her. He believed it the start of redemption and peace with his demons. “I hope one day I will get to apologize to her for my manners.”

“That is if you find her house.” said Ide. “Even I don't quite know the path.”

“Why do you think she comes out of her lair so seldom?” asked Roland. “How come you see her so scarcely?”

Ide shrugged. “Samar is the lonely kind. She cannot be bothered by our businesses and I believe that it is why she survived for so long in a world that always sought to kill her. She doesn’t mess with problems that are not her own. For that, she is wiser than you and me.” she sighed. “She and I both know what to expect from the world of men: not much to be honest.”

“I wonder what story lays behind her facade.” pondered Roland out loud.

“Ask her, then, and be ready for her wrath.” warned Ide.

Roland walked with her in silence and pain, sometimes feeling the need to lie down. From time to time, Ide waited for him to stand again and what was usually a thirteen minutes walk in the forest turned into an agonizing hour of breaks, of waiting and of painful march. Ide felt a hint of shame. He was not yet ready for such exercise and she had compelled him to abide by it. If his recovery regressed, she would hate herself.

“Don't you miss your family?” she asked, just a few minutes from reaching the river.

“I guess so,” said Roland, sitting on a rock. “I mean, I have always been prepared for my sisters' absence, for their marriage or life in a convent. I know I miss them, for they are my elders and they spent much time nursing me as a child. But I will certainly not miss those days they thought me a doll and played dress-up games with me. After I grew tall enough to stand above them, I was deemed man enough to train and be a soldier, to ride and hunt with Godfrey.” he gave a smile. “I miss Godfrey a bit. He had always tried to show me who commanded over me, but I grew taller than him and so he stopped after a while. You see, as his little brother, I looked up to him. He was my first hero, the first man I wanted the approval of, beside my father.”

“Godfrey,” pondered Ide out loud. “I believe I know him. He married a fair lady some years ago and made a showy feast of it. I heard she gave him a son.”

“My brother married?” asked Roland in disbelief that his quiet brother, shy and awkward with women, who ran the country for blonds should have married. “That is great news!” he exclaimed with a bright smile. “I am most pleased with it! I must go and congratulate him as soon as I come home!” his joy died when he pronounced those words. If he went home, then he would no longer spend his days with Ide. He couldn't name a reason, but her absence, her soothing presence, would be to him as if he died a little himself. She was so much like him, yet so different. She understood him.

Ide tried to forget the slight pain his last words brought to her, the relief spattered upon it all that he should leave her to her own destruction. “We haven't heard of your family ever since the wedding and that of your sisters. They have not come after the plague, they have not come at all. Few in the village know anything and usually they are men, not talkative enough to inform their gossip-greedy wives.”

Roland stood up and followed Ide who had begun to walk. “I shall see that they are well, then. I will ask my father why he did nothing for his people. That is unlike him. My mother would have urged him to go and make sure that at least the farmers would be safe.” he frowned. “I am also confused as to why so many of our people should be left defenseless. So many farms burned, so many churches too. My father would never have let it go so easily. Something is off, and I can't say what. That is much worrying.”

Yes, something was off. Roland knew his father was thorough in his rule. He knew he liked to keep his people, his lands and even the fields around well kept and guarded. His father took pride in the way his land was protected, he longed to honor his forefathers with the way the lands passed upon him by his father, a man of great glory who partook in the conquest of England, were kept. Those burnt churches, burnt houses, burnt farms, dead folk, poor wary paupers would never have happened had his father have a say. Suddenly, Roland felt cold. What if something had happened to him?

A crack startled him and gave a breath of relief realizing it was only Ide's foot on a branch. All was well. “God dwells here.” he murmured for himself.

“How come your family did not come for you?” asked Ide as the ripple of the river intensified with each steps.

“I sent a messenger when I arrived in Agues-Mortes. I believe he must have lost himself, for I have not heard of him, or my family of me.” he chuckled. “My mother would have come to take me home, otherwise.”

The forest suddenly led way to a blinding light, and a small clearing where a river lazily flowed, some rocks spattered here and there to divide the current of a clear water. The forest there was located on a slight slope and trees, when dense deep into the forest, were there more seldom and scarcer when one followed the river down on foot. It was nearly the end of the forest there, but still, it remained far enough remote of any sign of civilization. The river itself was deep enough for one to bathe in it and remain dry from the waist.

“There is a waterfall uphill. Not much spectacular, but still high enough for rainbows to spring when hit by the sunlight.” said Ide. “The fountain is hours of walking from here.”

The air was fresh and grew warmer with the sun rising in the sky. “That is a landscape I could get used to.” said Roland, savoring the peace of there.

Ide put her bag on a rock and took out scissors, soap and polished iron. “Undress and get in the river. Wash yourself and I will come back when you are done.”

“Wash?” asked Roland. “I thought you would trim my beard and cut my hair.”

“I will once you are clean.” Ide gave a mischievous grin. “Your smell still haunts my nose.”

Roland roared with laughter. “Good! I thought you were mad at me for what happened this morning.”

Ide gave a gentle smile and Roland's heart skipped a beat. “I was surprised. That is all.” she pat his shoulder. “Now get in here, wash and I shall be back to comb your hair and cut it. I could weave a sail with your hair and beard.”

“I haven't shaved since Syria.” he confessed.

She shrugged. “I guessed so.” then, with a tinkling laugh, she walked away and disappeared between the trees, leaving Roland with some intimacy.

While she was away, Roland took great pleasure getting rid of the filth, dead skin, and massaging his muscles. He had lost weight and it showed. All his muscles were gone and he would have to work hard to get them back. He saw that he was more slender than before and that his fingers had turned soft and lost their callousness. It had been months he last held a sword. Even more he stopped training for warcraft.

Roland looked at his skin, once he got rid of the foul beastly smell he had borne for so long and noted with displeasure that his tan gained in Syria was almost gone and that he had turned white out of days staying inside like a inane old man. He was covered with scars and the latest were the most visible. With that, he appeared a fearsome warrior whose past glory had decayed. Roland had lived through hardship and his limbs were a temple to this idea.

Roland was overall changed. He was not the man who went to Syria, nor the man who returned from it. He was a man anew and oddly it pleased him to wait and see what Roland it would become. As much as he had relished war, blood and lust, now, he relished growth.

Once he deemed himself cleaned up and had washed his hair and beard, he dried himself, put his clothes back on – not that Ide had seen him in the nude before, for she did when she was healing him – and called for Ide, who came back soon after.

She ordered him to sit on a rock and behind him, she combed his long blond hair for it to be cut thereafter.

“You took a comb with you?” asked Roland. “Also, what is this flowery scent I smell?”

Ide laughed. “That would be me, I believe. Did you think you would be the only one bathing?” she felt him shiver under her touches. “A woman never parts from her comb.”

Roland closed his eyes, savoring her gentle touch, her laugh, her voice and her sudden grace. He wondered about her and marveled at how she hardly felt real, this plain woman with charm to spare.

A shrilly grating sound startled him, breaking the spell of her hands on his scalp. It was the sound of a blade against a rock and it brought back painful memories, awoken a beast made for slaughter. Roland began to breath sharply, hardly containing his panic when Ide gently combed his hair with her fingers. “All is well.” she whispered in his ear.

Her breath was so fresh, her voice so entrancing Roland immediately calmed down. The blade was scissors and she would cut his hair for him to be human again. “I trust you.” he hoarsely said. “I trust you with my life, Ide.”

Ide gave a pained smile, a bitter breath. “You are the only one.”

“No.” he said. “I mustn't be the only one. I trust you still, even when you drink.”

She began to cut his hair short, according to the latest fashion, leaving a great puff of hair in front, cutting shorter on his back, yet not as short as the knights of then. If Roland was to wear a helm again, he ought to have the haircut for it. When once his hair reached his waist, now they were shorter than ever and Ide took pride in her work, for she thought it healing as well.

“I have full trust in you.” he said. “Even with knives or blade, I choose to trust you. Know that I do not trust often.”

“I am most pleased then.”

“You healed me, you saved me, you protected me.” he turned to her fully for her to trim his beard. “You held me close last night and it was the first taste of peace I had for a long time. You silenced the demons and I am grateful for you and your presence. I am happy I got to meet a woman as gentle as yourself.”

Ide lowered her eyes and worked on his beard. “Last night was different. I was afraid of your screams and nightmares. I held you close, not for yourself, but myself. As I told you before, I am a selfish person.”

“Surely a woman who heals can but be compassionate. You paint yourself in darkness, Ide, and you blind yourself to your own light.” he wiped off a tear from her cheek, his eyes, two burning emeralds, smoldering with tenderness, affection even. “Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for being selfish.”

Ide gave a smile. “You kept me warm last night. You did not scream either.” she gently rubbed her thumb on his cheek and it electrified him. “Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” his face grew dark and bitter. “Why should a maid thank a monster?”

“You might think it true,” she said. “But I know you are no monster. A monster would have hung me, spat at me, beat me with rocks, tried to bite me, or even cast me out.” she scowled thinking of the townsfolk. “I know monsters. I know demons. You are not one of them.”

Roland took her hand in his, his touch as gentle as the breeze. “Thank you.” he whispered, visibly moved by the words that had crossed Ide's mouth.

Ide swallowed and kept working in silence. Roland hardly believed her when she said he was no monster, for a part of him would forever be engulfed in the certainty that he was indeed a monster, that his heinous nature, his despicable deeds would lead him to hell.

Ide cut the last strand of his beard and gauged her work. She suddenly grew red as she realized how comely Roland was once ridden of this hairy mane. Roland was a handsome man and Ide had slept with him. Had her mother been alive, she would have fainted and cast her out. Now, it seemed his green eyes shone brighter. It seemed his features were clearer, finer, softer. Now, his handsomeness was no longer hidden behind a veil of filth. Yes, Roland was handsome, and Ide, for the first time, felt her heart race somewhat a tad more foolishly. It felt like she was a sixteen years old girl again and fell for the bard who had come at the fair to deliver stories.

“What?” asked Roland, confused as to why he sudden shyness. “Give me the polished iron! It cannot be as bad as that.” he said, worried that he might be disfigured. When he looked at himself, he gasped. It felt as though he was completely remade. His haircut pleased him and his beard had been trimmed short and clean. Suddenly, he felt he lost ten years. “That is excellent work.” he marveled.

“Thank you.” Ide almost choked whispering it. She gave a hesitant look to his eyes and breathed with relief as she saw how haunted they remained. Roland was still the same.

Bells ringing in the distance broke the awkward silence that settled between them and Ide started.

“The priory.” her voice was full of fear and apprehension.

“Given the hour, it must be Sext.” Roland said, his eyes narrowing, trying to gauge the distance from the river to the priory. “They will be praying long.”

Ide's fearful face gave way to a large wrathful grin. “They shall be praying long, you say? Perfect.” her smile grew menacing and full of mischief. “Follow me.” she told him.

She darted off and walked down the river, trees growing scarcer as the river grew larger. “Ide!” called Roland. “What – what are you doing?” he panted as he ran to reach her, holding tighter on his staff.

“Having some fun.” Ide screamed back as the slope grew plainer. The first fun in an eternity.

They reached the fringe of the forest soon enough and hid behind trees, peering at a church surrounded by a complex of buildings old enough to have known the first dukes of Normandy. The land there was almost surrounded by the forest and if she followed the river, Ide would eventually reach the village she so hated. The river snaked away from the forest and around the Holy fortress were fields with carrots, onions and other vegetables, vineyards with grapes not ripe enough for wine – which would be sour anyway. Ide knew not to expect fine wine from this cold land - another higher building, build on the edge of the priory and a large stock of water. It was there, Ide thought, that they brewed their piss. Well, piss for piss, she would show them not to underestimate a foe.

She turned to him and gave a childish smile. “Follow my lead.” she whispered.

“What?” his face was but confusion. “Ide!” he hushed as he saw her dart off towards the fields, hopping to cross the river.

He saw her laugh and take carrots onions and other vegetables to put them in her bag, he saw her ruin their fields while they were all praying, convinced that they were safe here, that no one would ever dare to come here and mess with their power. He saw Ide take care of ruining the barley field like a boar would. She sure knew how to cover her traces with the way she knew the forest.

Then, he saw her piss in their stock of water, piss on the vegetables, piss even on the fruits they grew. He saw her do it with laughter, a much pleasing laughter. He joined her with caution, afraid to be seen.

“Ide.” he whispered as he reached her. “What are you doing?” his face was red with embarrassment and he felt the urge to smack his hand on his face.

Ide looked at him, her pale eyes shining with fun. “Come on, do it too!”

“I cannot piss on God's land.” Roland said with fright.

Ide rolled her eyes and her smile fell. “Those are no men of God, but mortals who settled on a ground that belonged to nature only. Those are greedy men and I say they are what God has made worse. They are sin incarnate.” her eyes grew darker. “They beat me up, turned the whole world against me. You who are so fond of God, do you think it fair? I say not. Pissing on them is the least you can do for me.” she gently took his hand. “Let me enjoy it. Please.”

Roland sighed and shook his head in capitulation. “Fine.” he said.

Ide's face suddenly lit with a bright smile and she began to run across the fields, throwing rocks on the walls – rocks that reminded Roland of the crusade and those weapons the Saracen army had displayed to overcome them - throwing them in the fields, cutting what she could, sabotaging everything to even the ropes of the enclosure of the sheep the monks kept for wool. She slightly cut it for them to break free any time they would want to.

Roland joined her and together they ran on the fields, ravaging all with their feet. Ide felt herself fly and Roland felt himself lighter in this delightful evil. They were free, they screamed and laughed and played, took dirt and threw it on the walls, made mud and threw balls of it on the walls, Roland pissed around, flustered and hiding from her eyes, took out vegetables with his feet, seeing in this playful rage all the abuse his savior had suffered. He spinned her around, jumped with her and laughed, laughed for what seemed the first time, seeing the light of Heaven in her smile, hearing bells in her laugh.

Just a moment of carefreeness, a fleeting moment of innocence, it was all that mattered, all that was needed for Ide to let go of destruction and finally enjoy life as it was after such a long time caught in darkness. That moment became for her more precious that anything in life, for it was for her a way to reclaim her joy, her life, her soul and what made her human. For the first time, Ide smiled with a genuine happiness; and for this, she would always be grateful to Roland. For that, she would trust him.

Little moments of joy, it was all that mattered, all ever needed.

They both lost themselves in the moment, overjoyed, over-all, laughing till they couldn't breathe, running till they couldn't laugh and Roland lost Ide from his sight. He suddenly found himself alone on the field and started with fear hearing a rider approaching, closer, always closer to where he was standing.

“What are you doing? You cannot be here!” yelled a familiar masculine voice with strength.

Roland recognized that voice, as though it came from a distant past and turned with relief and joy that he should meet a dear friend today.

The rider stopped as he saw him and stayed on his horse for a while, agape, looking at Roland, eyes wide open, silenced by the sight.

He dismounted and with that same disbelief he walked towards Roland, alone in the field, growing a slight fear that Ide should be found there, on priory's lands. The man was tall, wore black hair long enough to reach his jawline, had a finely trimmed beard and was dressed in the latest fashion though the clothes had been shaped to be practical, and not fashionable. A German sword hanged on his belt and his horse had been bred for war. His brown eyes shone with a fierce light and his features were as sharp as those of a sheriff, abiding by the law only. The man narrowed his eyes, seemingly trying to determine if the vision offered to him was true, or just a pipe dream.

“Roland?” he cautiously asked. His shirt was white and shared the same features, though the nose had been crooked and he was covered with scars, was leaner than before and borne himself differently, as wounded. He held a staff tight not to fall and his legs quivered. In this man was familiarity but something that wasn't there anymore. He was the same, but somewhat changed and it troubled perception, made one look through a blurry glass. The man in front of him, with those peculiar haunted eyes, shrouded in white looked almost like a ghost. “Is that – Is that really you?” he moved his hand forward to graze him, feel him, know if he was real.

“Stephen.” Roland hoarsely replied with all the affection a man should feel for a dear friend.

Stephen went aghast and a smile began to grow on his lips when a sudden yelp and the flash of a branch behind his head knocked him down.

Behind him was Ide, panting, sweating and her face distorted with fear, visibly shaken by the sheriff's appearance on the field.

“Ide!” Roland yelled, outraged. “This is a friend!”

“A friend who would have hanged me had he found me here. Worse, he could have taken me to the monks!” her terror echoed in her high-pitched voice.

“Had I have the time to tell him who you were and insured your safety, he wouldn't have! I know him, Ide. He is not like this.” certainty filled his words.

“I don't.” said Ide.

“Let use take him to the house and heal him.” he pleaded. “Please.”

“No.” her voice still echoed with fear. “I don't trust him.”

“You trust me.”

“Yes. Not him.” she replied. “I cannot. I won't let him step on the threshold.” her words left no objection.

Roland gave her a dark look and bent to Stephen to check out his pulse. He gave a sigh noting that his friend was merely knocked out and what completely fine. “Ide -” he suddenly stopped as bells across in the countryside. Sext was over and Ide needed to run into the forest before the monks found her and tortured her again. He gave her a urgent look she understood from the way her eyes opened wide. “Go!” he hastily said.

Ide began to run into the forest and stopped realizing he wasn't following her. “Roland!” she called. “Hurry!”

“Go!” Roland ordered. “I will follow!”

Ide hesitated on her spot. She kept looking back, frozen, seemingly unable to move without him. Her body longed for the forest, her eyes longed for him.

Roland hoisted Stephen on his horse with a great groan and let it towards the gates of the priory, deeming that he would have time to limp towards the fringe of the forest to vanish between the trees with Ide.

He hesitated at the door. He wanted to stay with Stephen's familiarity, to hear him talk, to drink with him and wrestle and hunt and laugh; to spend some time with him in a world he felt he did no longer belong in. It was a chance to come back home at last, see his brother, his father and mother, to inquire about his sisters to feel the softness of his bed once again, to be home, to be well. He longed for this world he felt still had a warm seat for him, all changed as he was. He could, he thought, be that same man again, demons, fears, traumas and all. He desired to see them all, to bend before his father, to tell him about the crusade, to see pride in his eyes. It was a chance to reclaim his old life as his own, to leave the forest, to leave Ide.

Ide. His mind wandered towards her and the chains binding him to his family and the ancestral home weakened, faltered, yielded towards the attraction growing inside of him for that woman who saved him from hell. He clung to her, clung to the house, entranced by her voice and her simple nature. He wanted her. He yearned for her presence around him and the mere idea of her absence was to him as painful as a long forced walk in the desert.

Roland closed his eyes for a moment. He had never felt so torn in his life but when Hugues was in peril and he must abide by the law of the man who would become king of Jerusalem, Godfrey of Bouillon and his brother, Baldwin, two men Roland had earned the respect of.

He was looking at two different paths now: one leading home, to a place he knew, to a world he knew would hold no surprises, another leading to the unknown, to a lifetime of mystery, a path Roland had walked on once and was cast out of. He sighed and opened his eyes again, gave a last look to Stephen.

“Soon, my friend,” he said. “We shall drink again, and I will ask things of you.” his hand ruffled Stephen's hair. “For now, Venus awaits.”

With a last look to his friend, a man he had known most of his life, he darted off and with great effort and difficulties, raced towards the trees, towards Ide, towards that path betokening of happiness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long chapter (classic move!). They are getting closer and boy they might kiss soon. Stephen is a MVP and a loyal friend and perhaps the noblest of my characters and the monks are assholes.


	9. Understanding to belonging

 

As much fun as the mischief conducted in the priory's fields was, it poorly improved Roland's condition. While Ide's bruises healed and vanished, her bones coming back altogether, the trauma slowly covered by a succession of layers time set for oblivion, Roland's legs still ached and although he could circle the house and wander around, he did it slowly with the help of a staff, for it seemed all his effort to run with Ide back to the house, to drop Stephen – he hoped was well – to the gates of the priory and the long walk they had undertaken earlier, had made him regress a bit. No fever arose tough, and overall, all that Ide could reckon about Roland was that he was out of peril and that he would soon have completely recovered.

Still, Roland lamented that he had grown so lean and that a lack of training, a lack of effort, a lack of health had turned him useless in battle. When he tried to lift his mail coat, he almost felt himself fall on the floor. He couldn't wear his armor, even less wield a sword wearing it. He doubted even his head would withstand his helm. He reached the idea that he would only leave the day his body would tell again of a crusader bred for war, who made a name for himself through steel and bravery. He resolved to only leave when his muscles would be back, when he would be able to walk wearing the heavy burden of a soldier. Such was his decision.

He took it, not only for himself and his body, his safety as a warrior, but also for Ide, for he yearned to stay with her the longest his honor commanded him, for he clung to her and her forest as much as he did his sword in battle, for she understood him and felt he would always have a place by her side.

The world of men did not understand him. There, he would be an outcast. He had lived too much, seen too much, sinned too much, killed too many. He did not share their dreams, their ambition, their mindset; he only had nightmares to spare, slain to count, blood to shed. Back in that world he had once been a part of, he would only be a shadow of his old self and would never be satisfied with it. He knew he would scream at night. He knew he would scare them all. He did not belong anywhere now, but his lands, between Acres and Jerusalem, among Baldwin's ranks, among his peers who knew what he had been through. His crusaders friends understood it, Hugues understood it and Ide, in a way, understood it to some extent.

The world of men was unforgiving to the different. Ide and him did not fit the mold the world had been forged from. They had been shattered and damaged till they could fit no more and that was it, they had been cast out.

It had been that way for him ever since he left with Robert Curthose for Constantinople, Roland felt he was constantly trapped in two worlds, never quite fitting each of them, for he was too poor, too low in status to ever stand an equal with the princes of the crusade. He would never fit and it felt a life sentence.

The only place when he had felt right had been with Hugues, was with Ide. With them, he had felt like he belonged. With them, there was a mold in which he found a cozy place. It brought him hope.

Roland still had nightmares to spare but he spent his nights warming Ide and her bed, finding solace in her presence beside him. She held him close and he talked until his fears were all weakened and he could sink to sleep, his demons still dancing, for it seemed they would never stop. His nights were fitful, but Ide did not complain, for he was silent in this commotion. He still felt her as fearful as ever, especially since she believed the monks knew about the mischief conducted upon their holy fortress, especially since they had enough power to muster a throng for burn her house and hang her. Each sounds that resembled footsteps started her and Roland had to tame his instincts not to be started as well, for any sound resembling footsteps, blades, or even roars brought him back to the crusade and he felt the urge to grab the sword to defend himself, all the while despairing to ever be normal again.

“I must tend my hives today.” Ide said one morning they were both lying awake, savoring the sunlight of the outside world.

“Do what you must.” he wanted to kiss her forehead, but instead nestled around her to feel her warmth. “What do you want me to do for you today? Ask and you shall be granted.”

Ide sighed, stood up and combed her hair. “Heal. That will be well enough.”

Roland stood up as well and dressed in haste before he prepared gruel for her under her rolling eyes. He cleaned a pint and gave her mead while cutting some bread she had spared to hand it to her smearing honey on it and making the bed. “I can do more.” he said as he took the comb to tame her mane.

“I can manage.” Ide groaned. “Help someone else. Find yourself an occupation, repair your mail, sharpen your sword.” her eyes grew melancholy. “Leave me alone for a while. I need it and I need a drink.” she still did not know why he chose to stay with her. She was nothing. What could he see in her worth?

“As you wish.” he whispered, his lips drawn to her forehead.

Night entered the room bringing some bird, his maw dripping blood. Roland shivered seeing it and cold sweat pearled on his neck. He gulped thinking that he had been a feral beast like Night before, thinking of what he had done. He drank some mead to numb his sudden gag.

“I feel like walking today.” he said as to divert his mind from raw flesh.

“Good.” said Ide. “Bring me flowers to dry. It smells too much of a man in here.”

Roland gave her a smile and ate in silence, glanced at her when she was not looking and thought how simplistically enthralling this woman was, how complex her mind was and how fresh it was for a woman to be fully herself with a man, to be one with her emotions and flaws.

She stood up when she had finished eating, spritzing her face to clean it – had Roland have this peculiar soap he bought in Aleppo, he would have given it to her, as well as the perfume a merchant gave him – she put an apron over her full blue ankle-reaching dress and exited the room, petting Night who then followed her in her daily tasks, leaving Roland to solitude.

He wondered about her sudden aloofness, when merely a few days ago, she had touched him and slept with him. Perhaps he did something wrong. The thought gave him a resentful shudder.

He finished eating in silence and set off for the forest, walked to the river, remembering the path Ide had followed and followed it against the current, with the help of his staff, climbing a steeper slope with great effort, covered with sweat, bruising his damaged limbs and scratching his skin on rocks and trunks. He was purposeful in his walk but had told nothing to Ide, for the decision had been taken in haste.

His mind was now haunted by a single idea: to make amends for his behavior to Samar, to mend his wrongs, apologize and offer help if she needed some. If _she_ could forgive him, surely Christ would.

He finally arrived after a painful eternity on a much flat parcel of land ridden from trees, not far from Ide's home, not too high, but high enough for him to overlook the lowest part of the forest beneath him, to see the road he had taken in the forest to come back home, to see the priory, a distant complex of walls and turfs in the distance, the end of the forest separating priory and town, the fields he had crossed and the burnt village nearby, the church and the bell tower proudly rising from a forest of roofs. The river beneath him was but a thin iridescent thread and if he narrowed his eyes, he could almost see the manor, the houses surrounding it and its low walls, a weak protection against raiders. Here, he overlooked the whole valley and it felt like he was its protector and chosen warden.

A great clattering blang tore him away from his contemplation and he turned around swiftly, frightened and triggered by the sound. Samar was there, planks of wood spattered across the ground and she held a long knife, not with fear, but menace.

“What are you doing here, crusader.” her voice still reeked of contempt.

Behind her was her house, its roof shattered, small, seemingly about to be swallowed whole by the hill. Roland deduced she had dug through it to build her small dwelling which walls were made of stones, turf and heavy trunks in that respective order. The roof was made of planks but also of earth covering it's top, a chimney emerging from the structure, oddly amiss in the decor, for it looked as though it came straight out of the hill. It was a lair of the most peculiar sort.

That lair had been shaken though, the recent storms had hit it harsher, for the lair was up on the hill, dug into the flank of the earth and it was there the winds were the most violent, and the roof was a gaping hole in which, Roland guessed, Samar was freezing.

“You need help.” he declared.

“I do not need anything from you.” her face bore a haughty look and her stance was as proud as ever.

Roland shrugged. “I merely came to apologize and mend my wrongs. I recently reached the knowledge of their extent towards you. All I ask is a chance for repentance.”

Samar scoffed. “You? You are beyond salvation!”

“I gladly reckon that. Still, I wish to help, for I respect you that much.” his voice was calm and hid the pain her words had brought. He tamed the angered beast in him that thirsted for Saracen blood.

Samar narrowed her eyes and considered him for a moment. He seemed sincere enough and although she detested him, she indeed needed help for her repair. She wondered, though, why he suddenly grew an admiration for her, and looking at him, felt her heart swell with pride regarding Ide's fine work in healing him. She sheathed back her long knife and stepped forward. “You long to tame my contempt I reckon. I care not for words, young man. Only actions when the intention is worth it.” she gestured towards the house behind her. “Repair this and then I will consider your repentance.”

Roland gave a grin, and set off to work. Samar ordered and he obeyed, abode by her law on her small parcel of land that was his father's still. He worked for doleful hours, his back aching, his muscles yielding under the effort to rebuild a roof. Samar helped him still and set the planks, gave them to him and covered that thick unbreakable layer of wood with dirt and grass to swallow the usual rain of Normandy.

Roland had never sweat that much and thanked Ide for her cutting his hair. The air was grew heavy and smelled of rain. Thunder would strike again, but Roland trusted the roof would resist tempests. It took him a whole day to repair what nature had tried to shake, but he was glad to note that his muscles ached less, having grown more accustomed to physical effort. Roland trusted that in a few weeks, he would be able to wield a sword wearing a heavy chain mail, a mail hood, metal spurs and boots, the richly adorned sheath of his sword and a shield. Although, he felt he needed a much lighter armor not to rot and bake in those layers of metal that burned if he dared touch it with his bare fingers. God knew how many knights had gone mad with the sun and how thirsty they all have been marching through Anatolia, God knew the mad roars some had given while rushing towards the enemy, or some mirage in the desert, their faces red and eyes wide opened.

“You worked well.” Samar's voice was harsh yet gentler than ever. She considered this freshened crusader, coming down from the roof, standing with difficulty on the ground, drawn by gravity to the core of the earth, unable to stand any longer. This man had exhausted himself on fixing her roof and had kept his promises. He had worked hard to please her and Samar was glad of it. Indeed, she cared but for actions, and this man's convinced her of his good heart. Sure the greatest deal of the work had been done fixing the joists, but Roland helped her still and his work had spared her from weeks of repairs.

“Come and rest inside, now.”

Roland greedily accepted and found that Samar's house was smaller than Ide's. It was yet, warm and she had set a central hearth for all accommodations which all the furnitures were set around, a large bask of water she went to fetch everyday to the fountain or the river was set outside and next to it was a pantry for her to keep her food stocks. Inside Samar's room was only a bed, a corner carved in stone with many of her medicinal herbs and jars of mixture she made, Roland guessed, to ease one's pain. She had another table, still, and two stools, one for herself, the other for visitors, and she set on it two pint of mead Roland smelled as to be Ide's – for they smelled of delicacies – and two large slices of bread.

“Sit.” she said. And Roland sat.

Roland greedily drank his mead and asked for more. It was Ide's. It was too savory, too delicate, too good to leave any doubt.

“Your hair has been cut right.” Samar said. “Your beard trimmed.” she looked him around and wrinkled her nose seeing his old hose and leather shoes wrapped around with leather bands. His tunic was not that fresh and it hanged on his chest like some veil. It was a rather short one. For a man used to fine silks, to rich clothes and to calf length tunics, Roland did not mirror his status. “Your clothes – well, you'll wear better when healed, will you not?”

Roland gulped his mead and swallowed the bread. His stomach gladly grumbled. “Ide cut my hair and gave those clothes to me.” he shrugged. “To me, that is enough. I lost all my belongings in the attack. Even my horses have fled. I cannot buy anything new to dress myself, nor can I buy anything for Ide's comfort.”

Samar narrowed her eyes, judging. “Why should you care about her comfort?”

Roland suddenly grew uneasy and stirred on his seat. “She healed and saved me. I hold her in high respect. I was blind before and she opened my eyes with that peculiar light around her. I want to repent to her too and I have seen her attire. My savior shall not live miserably, not after what she has done and not after what I have done.” his thoughts wandered to the man she had killed. “She killed for me and I am afraid it shattered her.”

Samar scowled. “She killed for you? I who chose not to teach her death! I who did so much to protect her from this kind of guilt! You brought all my effort down! You turned her into a murderer!”

Roland gave a sigh. “It was either her, either them. They would have killed her anyway, or worse. She took my blade and protected life with it. That is a chivalrous thing to do, don't you think?” he swallowed another bite of bread. “I told her so. I killed more than she could kill in her life. I am the bringer of death, I told her. She is the warden of life. You may think it heinous but it was survival. What would the world be if we chose to let ourselves be killed by evil-seeking folk?” he drank another swig of mead. “She was in limbo with herself for quite a time and I was afraid the guilt might wreck her, but she stand tall still and I believe she will make peace with herself. She has worse guilt burdening her anyway.”

“You know her well.” Samar relaxed for a moment. “You seem wiser.”

“How could not I grow wise with her by my side and with your words? You made me doubt and doubt is the true path to wisdom and knowledge.” he said. “That is why, according to what I know of my lord and savior Jesus Christ, I shall become a good man and repent for my sins.”

Samar's eyes grew dark. “Your sins are many and were all done under the pretense of your god's name. Your intentions are as fickle as the reasons you conjure his name. Do you believe still?”

Roland lowered his eyes and drank another sip.“More than ever.” he finally confessed. “Ide has been placed on my path by God to open my eyes. If I believe in God, I believe in fate.”

“And yet, you will leave her to her loneliness and sorrows once healed. Ide has brought you in for her salvation but truly, you shall one day be her grief.” predicted Samar.

He stirred, uneasy and flinched at the thought. He wouldn't gamble Ide's happiness for the world, not even for his health. It pained him and a hint of resentment stung his heart. “I do not wish it for the world.” he murmured.

“What will you do about her, then?” she asked.

Take her with him. That was his first thought. He would take her with him and she would brew ale and mead and maybe wine and his land would grow richer than ever a king's. She would keep his bed warm, keep his household safe and healthy and would forever remain a beacon in the darkness, shielding him away from the demons. “I don't know.” he lied.

Samar sighed. “How is her? How is her cat? What news of her can you offer me?” in her voice was all the love and attention a grandmother could feel for her only grandchild. Ide was hers in a way. She was hers in the way she handled herbs and that of healing. She had shaped her as much as a mother.

Roland smiled. “Night is fine, as ever a happy cat, hunting, eating and sleeping. A fine cat indeed.” he looked at his cream tunic and frowned at his cat hair spattered across the fabric. “Ide.” he whispered her name. “Ide is as fine as she can considering what she suffered when she went to the last fair.”

“She went back to the village?” Samar's voice echoed with apprehension and concern.

“Yes.” Roland gave a sharp breath to keep his nerve as calm as he could. “She went there to sell ale some days ago and came back covered with bruises, blood, her dress nearly ripped off, crying and desperate. She drank a lot that night and I took her in, gave her as much comfort as I could give and kept my anger at bay. She said it was all the doing of the monks of the priory. She confessed that she thought herself responsible for every death that ever occurred, that she was cursed, that they were right at the village to call her a witch.” he scowled. “They aren't right. They never will be.”

Samar spat. “Those monks! Those damn damn damn monks! And them, at the village!” she panted, frothed with anger. “Give people someone to hit when they are down and they will. They need it to erase their grief, their guilt or their anger. People will always blame everything, anyone, but never themselves.” she drank some mead. “They should be ashamed! They should choke with guilt! They believe what those monks say but their words are driven by ambition! If they chose to unleash hell on Ide, it is because they know she sells better ale than them! Always fearful of a successful woman! A woman who can heal what is more! They will call her a witch because her knowledge had been acquired from another woman, a foreigner. They will think her evil because she does not bend to the law of men; even less to the law of men claiming to be God's.”

“She told me about yours.” said Roland as he flinched from her words.

“Do you have issues with it? Are you like all those men thrusting their faith upon their society?” her tone was accusing.

Roland shrugged his anger away. “I believe. My faith is God's. That is enough for me. There is no need for others to believe. If only I do, then, what is wrong with that?”

Samar gave a smile. A rare sight. “You have grown wise, indeed. You seem so far from a crusader.”

“Ide told me your goddess is life.” he said. “I guess life and love coexist in this world. Although I shall prefer love, for I find it greater and my faith is kept close to my heart.”

Samar gave a smile. Hearing him ask about her faith, as much as she hated the sight of a crusader, was to her as refreshing as the spring. “The first deity was a woman; a mother whose womb was the receptacle for life, and whose care helped it grow; a nurturing goddess, hard but kind, vowed to the eternity of mankind; a protector for women who summoned her magic to endure hardship and to be the receptacles of her very nature.” warm shivers ran down her sine, her souls moved by the power of a line of women bearing the weight of such a belief. “Your god baby walked, my goddess already moved earth and oceans. She is the beginning of everything, the end of nothing.”

“That is what you say.” Roland said. “Such is your belief. Know that I respect it, but do not share it.” he wanted to tell her that there could be but one God and that she was wrong but kept it to himself.

Samar nodded. “I thank you for your understanding.”

Roland sighed, already tired. “How did you build this house?” this had troubled him ever since.

Samar smiled devilishly. “I healed a carpenter's wife and son. He is forever indebted to me. Hitherto he came one day, following a demand of mine and built this house for a few weeks. I asked for him when the tree fell on my roof and he was so kind as to get rid of the tree, helping me build back my walls and fixing the beams of the roof.” she gave a smile. “His wife and son are full of energy now. I can take pride in my work.”

Roland fidgeted for a second and drank some more. “Ide said that the path to your home is unclear. She said even herself cannot fathom it.” he saw her eyes question how he managed to get there. “I followed the river. She said you lived near the spring.”

Samar sighed. “This child! She has never come here. How would she know how to reach me? I swear, this girl! I shall be visiting her soon. I shall slap her head and put some sense in it.”

“Why do you visit so seldom?”

She gave another sigh, sadder. “Her absence of will, her absence of joy, her depressed state drains me. I am but an old woman. I cannot bear so much at once every day. I have no energy for that.” she grew more solemn. “The forest here tends to confuse and lose those who wanders in the unknown, non-believers to the ancient magic that birthed the place, and a path is never quite the same into the deep fog.” she took a bite of bread. “Ide is the same. She is lost in a way. She must come out of the fog towards the light, leave the forest, perhaps, and wander to brighter horizons.”

“That is also my wish.” Roland said. “If I can be good, then I hope I can make the world a better place, or at least, my small corner of it.”

“That is good thought indeed.” Samar said. “Your intention changed. When you shall go back to Syria, to Jerusalem, you shall do it with better intent and I am quite glad of it. Leave the world alone and its destruction will inevitably be reached. it takes but a thin and fragile string to keep it together; a couple of good people to prove evil wrong through good deeds and love. It takes strength, drains life, but it is the only thing we can do.” she stood and pat his shoulder. “Your wrongs are being mended. That is a start.”

“If only I could mend Ide as well.” he sadly wished.

Samar narrowed her eyes and gave a crooky grin. “You do care about her. A great deal I dare say. Her name ripple in your mouth like some violent stream.”

Roland blushed, thinking about how he had slept beside her, inhaled her hair, relished her alabaster skin, reveled in her icy eyes. Even now he was afraid and ashamed of a growing desire towards her. “Does it?” he croaked.

“Do not fool yourself, boy. I can clearly see what it is all about.” she gave a knowing look at his crotch which Roland hastily hid with his hands.

“It is not like this!” he protested. “It is not simply this! There is other things also!”

“Oh. What?”

Roland went even redder, if it were even possible. Samar's eyes demanded an answer and he was almost incapable of uttering any. “Her presence.” he finally said. “I feel good beside her, tranquil and calm and the crusade does not exist when I am with her. I feel like I belong somewhere, that she understands me. I like that. It brings me peace.”

Samar gave a mischievous laugh above him. “Young man, from my point of view, that resembles love a lot.”

Roland blushed harder and felt himself weak suddenly, as the sudden realization of Samar's words bearing truth hit him as hard as a blow in the battlefield. It was true he yearned for her body, yearned for her presence. The only time he had felt it was with Hugues and Hugues was a man. In his life all that Roland had pictured about love was a chaste marriage between a man and woman such as his parent's was, but then he had grown attached to Hugues almost to madness, shared his bed, shared his intimacy. He had depended on him as much as he did him and found solace in him. So this what love had felt, so this was natural and good, for now he felt it towards a woman and never had he been so confused yet so enlightened.

What he felt with Ide was the same, exactly the same. It had begun as a mistrust, a fancy, an attachment and now infatuation. As much as he was betrothed to another, as much as he ought to be true to his words, he could not be deceitful to his heart when sprang the conclusion that indeed, what he felt for Ide was much too great of importance to be discarded. If she left him, then he would feel loss, an empty space in his core. If he left her, he would resent himself forever and damn his folly. If anything, Ide had become to him as important as air.

Indeed, that resembled love a lot.

Samar sighed and shook her head. “Perhaps I misjudged you.” she mocked the sign of the cross. “Now go in peace, my son and consider yourself repent from your wrongs against me. Now hurry back to Ide's. The sun will set soon.”

Roland stood up, his heart in a joyful mood, excited about the new feeling growing inside it. “I thank you Samar,” he gave a warm smile and pressed her hands in his. “For everything.”

“Tell her I shall come pay her a visit soon.” said Samar as she went to show Roland the door. “And bring me sweets next time you come to pay me a visit.”

Roland gave a laugh. “Good bye, Samar. Peace be with you.”

“Wa alaykum salam, Roland.”

That said, Roland began his walk down to the forest, followed the river and feared for any attack on the path to Ide. Every crack started him and never had his heart beat so anxiously, expecting any attack any moment, yet, his mind was somewhat at ease, for now certainty slowly built itself regarding his sentiments. It was alone that he had been attacked in the forest. Now was different. He was alone no longer.

He finally reached the clearing only to freeze, seeing her wield his sword, curious about how it felt in her hand. Roland gave a gasp of awe and it suddenly struck him, when he saw this plain woman with so graceful a figure, so soothing a temper. It struck him how much he cared for her, how much he felt for her. He longed to protect her, to teach her how to be safe. He wanted her alive for centuries, wanted but her well being and to scream to the world how wrong they were, to make them bow to her and apologize for their abuse.

Ide wielded his rich sword, testimony of his wealth and status, and Roland loved her.

He loved her but was betrothed to another. He loved her, wanted her as a wife, a life-companion, but his hand already belonged to another. As much as Roland felt compelled to be faithful to vows taken in haste to please his father and fulfill his young man's lust, he now cursed himself for this decision. He loved Ide, but at the moment, too many chains prevented him from this freedom.

The sword though sent icy chill in his chest, for it was but a reminder of war and what he lost in it. It's glittering light resembled a lot like those flames the demons danced within. He suddenly felt oppressed and his heart began to run in his chest, not from a fresh discovery of love, this time, but of fear, of apprehension, of anguish that if he took it, it might damage his soul more and turn him into a monster, far worse than he was. He mustered courage and guts and sighed this away thinking of the blade in her hands made for life. In her hand, the blade would be well used. In his, not so much.

The blade brought back old memories he would have rather faded. It brought back blood, shattered limbs, pieces of guts and brain and Roland closed his eyes, shutting even his mind to the horror of war, opening them again to focus on Ide, this plain woman with so fresh a presence, so heavy a burden.

She took a glimpse of him and stopped, ashamed and perhaps guilty that she should have taken what was his. He noticed her frightful gaze and how her hands gripped the handle, he saw in her eyes the memories of the last time she had wielded it; the blood she shed with the blade, the crushing responsibility of a man's corpse. Her pale hands were so firmly wrapped around the handle, so white around it Roland believed she had been wielding it to ward off her deceit with life.

Slowly, he circled around her and sat on a trunk, all of his muscles aching from the effort of the day. He was able to stand no longer, and wielding the blade would but weaken him. He needed rest, but this sweet and frightful vision of her wielding a blade was strangely alluring. He was afraid she might hurt him or worse, hurt herself.

With a cautious eye, and experienced account of warcraft, Roland narrowed his eyes and judged her stance. He looked at her feet, the way she turned, the way she held the sword and remembered that way she had waved the sword around. He shook his head. It was a miracle she had survived so long against enemies well-versed in the art of killing.

“Your feet.” he said as she stared him with eyes full of terror. “If you do not stand your ground firmer you will be thwarted by enemies towering over you. Always know, when you fight, your enemy's size, for if you do you shall adapt to his fighting. If an enemy is taller than you, use it to your advantage, by resiting him till he pushes himself over you, only to swiftly dodge when an opening arise. If an opponent is smaller, use low blows and keep your arms close to your chest, for they will try and find an opening from the bottom. Stand firm on the ground and no one shall overthrow you.” his judgment was that of an experienced warrior and Ide lowered the sword, relieved that his anger had not broken out.

“I am no soldier. I couldn't use a sword for my life.” she said.

“For mine, you did.”Roland whispered, smiling. “I know who you are, Ide. You are no slayer, no warrior, no murderer, but a defender. As a defender, I deem it good that you should know how to fight for those who need protection. That is all. Take my advice or don't, I merely wish you to fare well if you ever came to need a blade to defend yourself.”

Ide gave a gloomy look. “Why should I care for my safety? Why should you care for my fare well?”

 _Not that again_. Roland shrugged. “Because good people are rare and you are one of them.” he said firmly, leaving no opening for discussion. “I am amazed that you can wield this sword so tight. It is so heavy still.”

Ide shrugged and smiled. “I held things much heavier.” she gave him a knowing look.

Roland laughed. “You are talking about me!”

“That damn mail coat.” Ide grumbled. “You were a stone I couldn't move!”

“Why, I am not surprised! This thing slowed me down in crusade! The relief I felt when I took it off every night! I felt lighter than a feather!”

Ide went silent and considered the sword for a bit. “That is a fine sword.” she wondered, admiring the craft of it, it's simple pommel and the handle trapped between thin golden thread.

“A German forged sword, a gift from some German monarch to Godfrey of Bouillon that originally should have had a gem-encrusted pommel.” Roland said, pondering about this craft's story. “Alas, to Godfrey's dismay, the king wasn't rich enough for it and in shame, burned the bill and made it forgotten. Godfrey gave it to me when I saved him from an arrow by mistake. He wanted to get rid of it so he gave it to me as a repayment. I was proud when I received it from his hand. It made me feel important, me, a second son to a baronet swamped deep into the Norman countryside, far from Caen's fortress or even Bayeux's cathedral.” he looked at the blade. “Good swords are made East of Paris. The best, farther from here, to the North, where weather is harsher. I guess it strengthens iron.”

“You speak of swords with passion, I see.”

“Wait until you hear me talk of horses or boats. Wait till you hear how I intend to manage my lands in Syria. Those will be great lands and I shall live in a palace such as those they have in Constantinople.” his voice was that of a child, caught daydreaming.

Ide smiled and gripped her hands firmer on the sword under Roland's appreciative gaze. She rose it to her head and brought it down with a slow move.

“Be swifter. Guide the blade with your whole body. Bend your back and – there – yes – good. Now bring it down across – like that – yes – Now do the same, but upward – move your foot forward. Join the blade – yes - good. Think that there is not only the blade that can hurt. The pommel can knock out a man alright and the guard can easily be used as to rip the sword of your opponent from his hand. Don't forget that a large part of a fight is chance only. Grip the hilt tight – tighter – no one should be able to take the sword from your hands – tighter. Good – now bring the hilt to your shoulder and – thrust. Now, cut – yes – see, that is good.” his words were those of a trained knight who had known his craft all of his life. “Now, you see, you can also block the hilt of your opponent and then take this hands away from their sword. If I was in better shape, I would have shown you, but I cannot yet move.”

Ide dropped the sword, sweating and panting with exercise. “What have you done all day?” she exhaled as she went to drink some ale and sit by Roland's side, they faces lit by sunset.

Roland was hesitant, but deeming that honesty was a proof of trust, told her yet what he had done, even if he supposed she might get angry at it. “I was at Samar's.” he confessed. “I repaired a damaged roof and then we drank some mead of yours. An excellent brew.”

Ide went silent and regret took her that she had not come with him to meet with Samar, that he had done to a stranger what her had refused to do. She was a poor friend. Indeed she was right, the world would be better off without her. Roland gave her a pained look that started her to the core. His eyes – his eyes were all too soft, too yearning for something pure for her to feel safe anymore. “I had to tend my hives and my brew anyway.” she said, more to herself than for him.

“She said she would come visit you soon.” his voice rippled with kindness.

Ide gave a weak grin and nodded. “I am glad you like my craft.”

“I do. Yours has this flavor I can't tell, some mystery to it. It is as good as it is soft. Your craft seems designed to fine palates.”

Ide mocked-slapped his shoulder. “Flatterer.”

“It is true. There is no cajolery in my compliment, only approbation and appreciation.” he took her hand in his. “Take it, please. Relish it for me.”

Ide bent her head and gave him a thankful look before a boast of pride took her. “It is true I brew the best ale ever in this land! It is true my mead could give a king moans of delight. I am good at this, I reckon it.” her face grew more somber. “Too good, perhaps for this age, for these lands, for the monks.”

Roland wrapped his arm around her shoulders in sympathy and gave a fearful look at the sword on the ground, shaking arising panic away. “I wish it weren't like this for you. Ide, I would make them hear reason. I shall see with my father that they no longer torment you. That will be a hard battle, for they are men of God and no man is above Him, but I shall try to tell him how good your craft is. I wish that someday, it will be appreciated among kings.”

Ide took the hand that reached across her shoulders to her neck and felt him start under her fresh touch. “That is kind of you to say.” she looked at him. His eyes were kind and sincere. “Thank you.” she considered his honesty and it warmed her impression of him.

Roland nodded, savoring the quiet of the forest at such hour, its cozy silence. Truly, he felt good there, amidst freshness and so soothing a presence. Who could have foretold a year ago that he would live to know such a shameful bliss? Guilt came back, thrusting its blade in his heart. He couldn't love her. He couldn't love Hugues. He was betrothed to Constance and only to her could he say the words of love. It was what he had been taught and he was bred to respect natural order; to abide by other people's law, his own discarded. If it was the prize to pay for a so called happy life, then he would meet it.

“Will you come to bed with me again?” a plea under the pretense of a casual question. He slightly blushed and his pride concealed any shyness.

“The nightmares?” this was more like an assertion rather than a question and Roland gulped before he nodded.

“When I close my eyes it seems I can but see this, the slaughter, the murder – they dance around it, those red foes, red as blood.” he suddenly brought back his hand together and rubbed them, uneasy. “I guess I did not see it at the moment, but now I realize all of my horrors and it feels like I will never forget. It sticks to my bones, to my soul.”

Ide sniffed. “You'll repent.” she confirmed. “You are already on the right path. You helped Samar after all.”

Roland wished he could believe her, but there was a limit he had crossed and even though he knew he could mend some of his wrongs, his crimes would never vanish entirely, engraved forever in marble, always coming back to haunt him. His recent endeavors were good, the former monstrous.

The sun slowly set below the horizon and they both agreed upon coming back home, then to bed after a meal made of cheese, bread and some smoked deer – a gift from Mahaut. While the dim light died outside, Roland slipped under the covers and Ide, after she changed into a night gown too old to be hers, came and laid beside him, still dreading for his touches, still afraid of the effect his body, his presence had upon her. She built up walls of defense, ironed her will not to succumb to something that would inevitably bring her unhappiness.

She stirred beside him, uneasy, hesitant for a mere question. Something roamed her mind, lingered there and she wanted to know. But intimacy with him would lead to deceit and she hardly could afford that. Still, it lingered on her tongue, that damn question and finally she asked “How did you survive amidst this abomination all these years? How come you did not crumbled down, laid down to die, giving yourself to be consumed by the void of death?” she gulped. “How did you not end up like me?”

Roland sighed in her hair. “The aftermath was hard, I confess. I feel you in so many ways regarding loss, for the only reason I survived the crusade was someone whom I lost.” he went silent for a moment.

Speaking his name would make his death real, send it to the wind for it to blow it away as if his presence, his feet touching the earth were a hazy dream, something unreal that never happened. It was giving him to death forever. Yet still, if he spoke of him, perhaps he would live on with Ide. Hugues would be linked to this new love. She would be his warden, remember his name and the deeds he would tell her. Perhaps keeping him for himself was selfish. Perhaps sharing was a true proof of love, not that he would ever say the words to anyone but Constance.

His engagement concealed everything and he feared that Ide might see him as depraved if he confessed what he had shared with Hugues. He felt her next to him, sensed her hesitation, her curiosity and surrendered to the will of confession.

“If I told you about that someone - what we lived – would your judgment of me be unchanged?” he asked.

“When I consider someone, I consider them for who they are. Not their acquaintances. I may disapprove, but I will try to conceal it to seek that someone's happiness.” she said. “The only acquaintance that may make me hate you would be the monks. I would cast you out. Healed or not.”

Roland smiled in darkness. “I am glad, then. I do not like the monks. I have seen too much of their doing ever to trust them.” he grew more somber. “They are what is wrong inside of me. They remind me of my sins.”

Ide sighed. “That is true.” inadvertently she inhaled his musk and found out that he smelled oddly good. She relaxed in this fragrance and relished his warmth, suddenly aware of their intimate connection. “You can confide in me. You trust me. I guess I can trust you.”

He felt at ease with her. It was the same as when he was with Hugues. They seemed to have been molded and misshaped for the understanding of difference. Had Roland been deaf, blind and mute, they would have both been the same. Yet, freedom was forbidden for him to love them. He sighed. “Swear that you shan't consider your judgment of me.” he said.

“I swear.” she said. “I swear it on my dead.” her voice grew suddenly dim. It was the only thing an oath could be made worth upon.

Roland inhaled sharply to give himself some courage. Could he, he would have drank a cask of ale. He remembered that she was no believer and that her struggles with the Church were at least as dreadful as his would be were it known his inclinations. Only kings could afford that. Not soldiers.

He breathed in some courage. “If I survived, it is, like now, thanks to someone I shared my most intimate moments with. I was understood, my burden shared and my bed warmed by his presence.” Ide gave a soft gasp. “Yes.” he confessed. “I laid with a man and he was a good man. He was my life and my soul and eased my nights, eased my pains and shared my nightly visions. He was tall and beautiful like the moon; fierce in battle, gentle in fondness.” speaking of him brought peace and pride. “He was a great soldier, perhaps too gentle, and his blade was not as confident as a more experienced warrior's. He was my life there. He was solace.”

Softly, Ide spoke, not daring to insult him, rather intrigued by this new face he showed to her. “How did you meet him? What was his name?”

Roland closed his eyes. “Hugues.” he breathed the name like some charm. “We met once arrived in Italy. He came from near Paris and had seen basically everything, heard every languages, was proficient at those and told of amazing stories. He was joyful and so full of hope when we first met. We bonded over our status and our dreams of landownings, castle-buildings and wealth we would make for ourselves. We shared the same dreams. We soon became intimate and then, after some delightful days in Constantinople, it began; the horror.”

Ide gulped. His voice was full of fright and she felt him shudder under the covers. She gently placed a fresh hand on his heart-hammering chest. “What happened?” she asked. It was that way with him. He started to panic and Ide compelled him to tell that thing that he kept within, the thing paralyzing him.

Roland gave a hard breath, pressed his own hand on hers for some peace. “He died.” he said. “He rode to protect me during the last battle. Against the orders he rode towards me and saved me from Saracen arrows, saved me, shielded me. He died in my arms and I, who had grown accustomed to his warmth, I who knew him intimately, who knew his body full of passion, I felt it fade away, I felt him die and I wanted to die myself. But we had won and lands awaited me, granted by Godfrey of Bouillon and his brother, Baldwin, for my fealty and bravery. I was rewarded but Hugues died. I raged that feasting night, but I couldn't show it, for if I did, I would have been declared an apostate. So I concealed it and mourned in the morrow.” he gave a breath between a sob and a pant. “I have felt guilty ever since. True the law of war requires sacrifice, but we are never quite ready for its tribute.”

“That seems unfair.” Ide uttered. She understood him 'Take me not them.' that was what she had wanted to scream at death. “He died for you. Not for some god. I find it braver.”

Roland smiled. “Thank you.” he said while tears rolled down to the spartan pillow. “He was a noble man. I will miss him, I think, till my death.” he gently kissed her forehead. “I am happy I shared him with you. Somehow, it makes him a little bit more alive. If I ever go to Paris one day, I shall go meet his family, tell them how good a man he was.” he remembered to plan this detour on his way back to Jerusalem, to a kingdom where Godfrey was king, where he would settle Constance and their future children in, where Hugues died and where he would like to take Ide someday.

Ide's eyes grew dim in the dark and silent she went, thinking about all those people she knew, who died in her arms as she watched them fade away from her, helpless, all her skills useless against an unfair plague. She remembered all of her prospects of happiness, all turned ashes. She shed a tear, thinking about her sisters who never got to marry or have children, thinking about her brother, her parents, Tom, this child she had borne who never saw the light of life. She thought of herself, Martha, burning in the pyre while Ide crawled in her skin, morphing into this drinking shadow.

Roland understood her. He understood loss, perhaps as well as she did.

“You will.” she said. “I am grateful you told me of him.”

A mortifying interrogation lingered and itched Roland still. “Is your judgment of me changed?” he asked. He could already see her laughing, thinking him immoral.

Ide shrugged. “From my point of view, inclination is inclination. I do not judge it. What truly matters is that you were happy with him. Who would I be to be disgusted with your happiness? Even so, there is no god to tell you something is wrong with you if you want my advice. No god is legitimate, therefore, none of their words are. Stick only to the basics: do not kill and respect the others, as different as they are.” she grinned. “I do not believe, but at least I try to respect that.” she heard him breath relief beside her. “Rest assured that my judgment of you remains unchanged. You showed me yet another face, that is all.”

Roland exulted, squeezed her in his arms. “Thank you.” he whispered.

Ide returned his embrace and slowly, they both dozed off to sleep, resting in each other's arms, Ide appeasing Roland, Roland warming her bed. Oddly, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she had never felt so at ease, nor did she had ever felt the need to drink less.

They understood each other. Her burden was lighter.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG THESE TWO!!!!!! ISTG I have to write a bonus scene where they bang cause they need to finally KISS AND TOUCH AND HAVE SOME SEXY TIMES!!!!!!! I hope you like these dorks so far. They gotta get more intimate and Ide will fall in love so hard lol.


	10. The last warmth of Summer

 

Samar kept her promise in the next following weeks and came a few times to see Ide and politely greet Roland. While they talked, Roland cleaned, wanting Ide to feel completely at ease and for her mind not to fidget about. But he also did it, for if Samar was now more obliging with him, he still dreaded her presence and natural authority. He cleaned for Ide but also to avoid her disapproval. While he did, Samar taught Ide some other tricks to heal and patch wounds. She was aware that she killed but it seemed Ide finally accepted the idea that it had been done under good intent. So far as she did to protect hundreds, that was enough.

Samar's seldom visits were always joined with bread she made herself, having build an oven in her house. It was good and crunched when one took a bite. It felt good with some hot spiced mead.

Ide spent with her happy hours talking about everything, being scolded at, rewarded for her drinking ale less; spent with her days of learning how to improve her skills, although, to Samar the fastest way would be learning medicine at Seville, or in Fiorenze. She knew some good teachers there and perhaps knew a few female colleagues with other knowledges to share. Ide was still incapable of bringing babies, perhaps she would do well learning. So Samar taught, bestowing her knowledge to her, bearer of a legacy of women. She wanted that eternity brought to one by their sons and daughters. If she managed to shape Ide a bit like herself, to pour some of herself into her then her achievement will be complete and she would be afraid of death no more, for she was old, and as queen of the forest, she needed an heir.

“We are the heir to a long line of skilled women, themselves heiresses to enchantresses and goddesses. We carry their knowledge and their skill. I chose not to talk to you about magic, my child, but the rest, you shall know, for my mind to be at ease.” she often said.

And Ide listened intensely, feeling her words ripple centuries back, and gathered the skill offered to her by those women Samar spoke of, whose goddess had taken under her wing.

So seldom as those visits were, Ide saw them worth the energy and was pleased to be surrounded with people who cared for her. It felt good, Roland sweeping off dust and walking around, training to wield a heavy sword again and taking it one day at a time, and Samar's long visits punctuated with long walks in the forest, learning those secrets of plants she already knew. Nothing was new to her and often when Samar repeated the herbs' properties, for what seemed the hundredth time, Ide sighed and glanced back at Roland, wishing she could spend some time with him and feel again his strong-built chest.

A fondness grew on her; nurtured by understanding, acquaintance, a soft voice, and perhaps a bit of lust. Often she caught herself thinking about his lips but shook it off, deeming it too dangerous a path for her well-being. She couldn't lose anyone again. She would not survive this.

Mahaut regularly came with food as an offering. The first time she came, she took Ide's cart with her and on it was sacs of grain, flour, a few hens and game animals she hunted. Ide had been thankful for her renewed presence. It had felt an eternity since the last time she spoke to her and they had much to talk about. The second time she came, she brought some old tapestries Mary had woven for Ide to hang them on the walls and be arm during winter. Ide recognized some as being her other sisters' and one to be her mother's. She cried with that gift and yearned for her sister's embrace.

But Mary wasn't here. She was in town and her husband would hate it if she went to see her, deeming her responsible for his child's premature death.

Still, what Mary secretly gave to Mahaut were proof of love and Ide loved her for that.

One day, weeks after the mischievous attack upon the priory, Mahaut came with rabbits, fish, peas, wine and a deer she hunted. Roland licked his lips marveling about this food she brought and a warm smile thinking about the animals' fur that would keep Ide warm in winter. Obviously he disapproved of Mahaut being a huntress, thinking this game rather destined to men, but he was thankful for her skills that would allow him to recover well and quick – not that he wanted the quickness of it to be too much.

Her skills reminded him of Godfrey, his older brother who had too much a taste in it, whose games were always refined and fit for a rank he did not have, a wealth he couldn't have if he stayed in the same land forever. Godfrey's games were the hunt, Roland's were war; Godfrey killed animals, Roland killed men. In a way, Godfrey had remained sinless.

Mahaut was sitting with Ide by the hearth as Roland poured them drinks before he laid down on the bed with Night on his stomach. Ide gave a coy thankful nod and Mahaut uttered some 'thank you'.

“How are you?” asked Mahaut. “Have you recovered from the fair?” she grew somber. “They shouldn't have done that. I was ashamed I was with them. I was mortified and had nightmares the rest of the week. If I had not been with Joseph and Richard and his father then I would have hunted them down.”

Ide placed a gentle hand on hers giving a sorry smile. “I know you would have.” she drank a large gulp of ale and Roland frowned. It usually meant she grew uncomfortable enough to drink her sadness away. He stirred, spying about what she would do next. “I am not well enough yet to shrug it off. I never will be. Their glowering, their blade-like eyes, their bestiality still paralyzes me and I feel like breathing fire at the monks' words, their accusations and everything about their behavior towards me.” her voice was calm but a storm brewed behind its placid facade.

“You don't deserve it.” fiercely said Mahaut. “You never did. You were always there for us, healing us. I remember when Samar took you as an apprentice after you said you wished to be like her. So young, she had said, and so promising.”

Ide chuckled and her smile died as soon as it appeared. “It was when Marguerite was sick. Father was so afraid for his little girl and mother – well – mother prayed for weeks. Samar was the answer she thought God put in her way. Marguerite lived until – until...” her words died.

“I know.” Mahaut wiped off a tear on her cheek, gently stroking Ide's face much to Roland's jealousy.

“Then Samar took me in when I first bled and taught me what she could when mother was not asking for me, or when I wasn't with them.” Ide laughed to a distant memory. “Then the plague; then the monks and their venom.”

“They are but sinners and shall rot in the flames of hell.” spat Roland.

Mahaut rose an eyebrow. “You're the one to talk!”

Roland fiercely bore himself to stand above her, his height towering, statuesque in anger. “Yes! I am the one to talk! Therefore I know what sin is and I say those men are wolves in sheep clothing.”

“I trust wolves more than sheep. I actually know what wolves want; blood, meat and hunt. The sheep only abide by the shepherd's law. A shepherd is fickle and his will cannot be seized. A wolf would devour me, devour dumb sheep. I can trust its appetite, its certainty. Sheep are weak and shepherd always kill wolves.” she shrugged. “Wolves can be trusted. Sheep must always die at the hand of the shepherd. Shepherds are those whose kill hide deceit.”

Roland's eyes locked on her for an intense moment. He longed for her warmth in his arms, yearned to take arms and defend her. But he deemed it a disservice to her if he fought her battles. He could but watch and shoulder her whenever she would wish to stand back and retaliate. “Those monks are unfair anyway. They are the mob of the world. Yet another reason to be ashamed.”

“Who knew he could talk so passionately?” Mahaut mischievously whispered.

“He is so much gentler now.” Ide whispered back. “Mahaut, I am so afraid. Each second I spend with him pulls me closer and I feel like walking on a thin rope above a gaping hole.”

Mahaut took her hand in hers. “Trust the moment.” she said. “Let go. If you look back, or look forward, you shall fall. You have two choices, really; keep walking or diving into this hole.”

“I am not as fearless as yourself! Not as fierce and strong.”

“It is true.” Mahaut confessed. “But you endure hardship quite well. You are just blooming after a long winter. Let it be. Let go, Ide. Fear cannot rule your life.”

Ide sighed. “Then stay with me. Help me be strong.”

Mahaut set a strand of black hair from her face and tucked it behind Ide's ear. “Always.” she whispered. She flicked her forehead and Ide yelped before she gave a nervous laugh. “Now put this brain of yours to sleep. Life is better when you're not thinking.”

Roland polished his mail on the bed, his arms aching with the weight of his armor. Ide gaze at him for a moment, marveled by the care he gave to his work, appreciative of his large hands, and of his focused green eyes. She couldn't name a reason why, but it seemed lately that a smoldering fire animated them with a soft passion. For a moment, she wondered about his lips and their softness, wanting to touch, or even to kiss. Roland was as gentle as he was violent. With such a man there were no middle ground. Either he would ravish her, either he would leave her. The latter would shatter her.

“What are you looking at?” asked Roland.

“Nothing.” Ide hastily replied, blushing, while Mahaut suppressed an amused laugh.

Mahaut grew sadder and she nervously bit her lips, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. “I need to tell you something.” she said, just as hesitant as the deer she had hunted.

Ide stirred nervously on her seat. Mahaut's voice betokened of nothing good. “What is it?” she asked with apprehension.

“I am to marry.” she confessed. “I have been betrothed for good and my wedding will be celebrated in a few weeks. The family of my husband-to-be finally agreed with mine, the dowry has been paid and the betrothal ceremony done. There is nothing left to do but to be wed in a church.”

Ide tried to rejoice but a smile lost its way on her lips. “You will leave me.” she said.

“Oh, Ide.” Mahaut took both her hands in hers. “You know there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. If I could, I would take you with me, you would brew beer and be rich, you would see the world, Caen, Rouen, London even!”

Roland rolled his eyes while jealousy took him. Those were stinking stifled cities. He could offer her better. He would show her Fiorenze, Venice, Constantinople, Jerusalem and the wonders of the east. He would make her richer and happier. He would respect her just as a husband would respect his wife. The thought filled him with shame that he had forsaken his oath to Constance in thought. Yet, he deemed Ide would be far happier traveling with him rather than with Mahaut and her merchant husband, aiming for lesser cities than those Roland had been.

“That would be nice.” Ide sighed before she faked a smile. “You shall wait though, Mary has already asked me to come with her and Peter in Caen.”

Mahaut smiled.

“Are you happy about it?” asked Ide.

Mahaut shrugged. “He is good a man enough for me. This marriage is my chance away from this town and this land. It is freedom in a way. He is as kind as to say nothing of the way I ride, kind enough to respect my boundaries and kind enough to grant me freedom. I know no men that benevolent to their wives-to-be. I have never relished for marriage, nor yearned for one, but this one might benefit me and my wishes. If a strand of wool is to hold me and prevent me from freedom rather than heavy chains then so be it.” she gave a sigh. “This marriage is my only way out. I shall never love him, but I guess I can like him enough for the rest of my life.”

“Does he love you?” asked Ide.

“He does.” she gave a smile. “Otherwise, he wouldn't have let me visit you and locked myself in a room.”

Ide gave a chuckle. “I am glad for you, Mahaut. It seems everything will favor you just fine.”

Mahaut gave a sad smile. “My heart aches from being parted from you. You were my only love, Ide.” Ide blushed and smiled. “Shall you come at my wedding? Please. I need you there.”

Ide placed a hand on hers. “For you, everything.”

“Know that I am not so cruel as to ask you to rejoice and feast with us. Your mere presence is enough.” Mahaut said.

Ide smiled. “I will come.” she glanced at Roland. “If Roland is healed of course.”

Roland rolled his eyes. “Even though, go and rejoice with Mahaut. I will guard your house.”

Mahaut's eyes grew worried. “You could come as her guard. She will need your strength.”

Don't make promises you can't keep, screamed a voice inside his head. “I prefer not to promise anything for fear to forsake my words.” he was honest with Ide. It was a matter of trust.

Mahaut sighed and headed for the door, uttering her leave, for her walking back to town would be long. Ide joined her and gave her a cask of her finest mead and some honey. “For the deer.” she said.

Mahaut gave her a warm embrace. “You need to let go, Ide.” she said. “You need to let yourself know some happiness.

“How can I when it seems my whole world is falling apart?” Ide said shedding yet another tear. “Mary's leaving, I cannot play with her children, her husband hates me and you will marry a merchant away from me.”

Mahaut gave a laugh. “Bold of you to say I am your whole world.”

“You know what I mean.”

Mahaut lowered her head. “We women have been taught to love who we marry, not to marry who we love.” she said with a tired voice. “We marry for gold and protection; are doomed to bear our husbands’ fortune and misfortune, to suffer their unhappiness and grow content with the scare leftovers of it. We are born to be unhappy creatures.” Mahaut gave a pained smile. “My husband is rich; my fortune is insured. Yet still I am unhappy to leave you and will never grow to love him. I am a lucky woman.” she held Ide’s hand. “But you, my love, you will be happier letting all go. Leave your lonely grave, come back to us and seek that happiness. You, Ide, can marry a man you love, for he loves you back.”

Ide gave a nervous laugh. “You don't know that.”

Mahaut laughed back. “I have seen it! His eyes are too soft for him not to feel some sort of infatuation.”

“I don't love him.” she croaked.

Mahaut laughed louder. “I am not blind. I know your eyes. You have that same look you had when you laid eyes on that minstrel... what was his name?” she brushed it aside. “Let go of your dead. Honor them by living the fullest.” she gently touched Ide's shoulder. “I know you'll figure it out.”

Ide gave her a sad look, a teasing pleading one. “Will you come again?”

“For you to look at me with such joyful eyes? Yes.” she grew grim. “Alas, I shall not come back as often as I would wish. My wedding will happen soon and there are so many things I have to do.” she lifted Ide's chin. “Your smile is precious to me Ide. Smile, think of me and be happy.” she stepped backward, her eyes locked on her friend. “We are alive!” she yelled. “We might as well roar it to the sky and rejoice for it!”

Ide smiled. “We're alive.” she muttered for herself. “We're alive.” she murmured, her voice a caress. “I am alive.” she told herself, the words as comforting as the hugs her mother used to give her sending warmth in her heart.

She waved to Mahaut, strolling back to the village, hiding her bow and arrows, hiding her hose and those hunting boots she wore under a long dress that reached her toes, a rich dress to show her newly acquired status. For now, the dress was pulled up to avoid staining it, but Ide knew that as soon as Mahaut would see the walls of the town, she let her skirts loose. At the village, one needed to hide who one was. It was but survival. At the village everyone thought they knew Ide. At the village, Ide was dead, but here, she felt alive, and especially since Roland thrust himself into her wretched life.

Mahaut's sudden absence left a void, but as soon as Ide crossed Roland's eyes, it was filled back. His company was now more pleasant and she grew a taste for his voice.

“You are close.” his voice hid some jealousy.

Ide smiled tenderly. “Our mothers were good friends. They have raised us together but they were always convinced that marriages would separate us.” she swallowed a growing sob. “I guess they were right.” she said. “Although, I am glad Mahaut's free spirit shall remain thanks to the good grace of her husband-to-be. I would hate it if he killed it.” she declared.

She looked at his eyes and slightly opened her mouth in awe when she noticed how intensely they were locked on her. She felt herself grow hot and bothered and blushed nervously. She couldn't stop looking at his mouth and his lips. He was calm, he was quiet and he was watching her with a longing Ide suddenly grew afraid of. In his haunted eyes, Ide saw fascination, tenderness, but also fondness. He suddenly caught his breath.

“Ide...” he breathed, all nervous and aroused. “I...”

“I'll go fetch some wood.” Ide said. “I don't want you to feel cold.” she ran out of the house, red and nervously breathing.

Roland let go of the breath he was holding and fell back on the bed, Ide's face lingering to his mind. He almost said it. He almost said the forbidden words. When he saw her, he wanted to take her on his lap, to roam her neck with kisses, to whisper to her ear how deliciously tempting she was, how beautiful and brave she was, how much he worshiped her, how he would worship her. Roland blushed and held his crotch while his heart seemed to skip a beat. He loved her. He loved her too much for him not to sin.

She reappeared later that evening, when the sun had set and Roland was already lying in bed. She slipped beside him and mechanically nestled against him. It was their normal now. She massaged his back with her fingers and they both fell asleep in each other's arms.

 

It has been a season Roland had been there now. Mahaut's visits were just as seldom as Samar's but now Ide relished in Roland's presence instead and she had never felt happier nor drank less. She no longer felt the need to drown her memories and feelings away. She was content with what Roland offered; a simple connection.

Summer died out rather quickly with all the required thunderstorms and veil of rain, yet it was still hot enough to wander outside not wrapped in cloaks. Roland could walk without his staff, all his bones had strengthened over time and his scars had turned white and faded on his skin, turning it a disfigured marble. It reminded Ide of her own stretch marks on her hips and stomach, although hers had not been gained in battle, rather in occasional change of shape.

It was a hot day, one of those where the sun shone brighter and flared with heat to make up for a fickle season. It was as if it knew its warmth and light was precious, as if it gave men a fleeting moment of respite. It was a warm day and Roland was cutting some wood with an ax for Ide to be warm in Winter. He often did things to ease her days. His always began with a prayer at sunrise, and ended with his body pressed against hers, sighing with ease.

He felt good with her. With her, the crusade seemed so far away, so distant it was looking back at something that never was. But Hugues was. And for him, Roland prayed.

Ide watched his muscular back bending and flexing with each blow of his ax. She bit her lips, nearly groaning at his glistening arms. Her infatuation had grown now and she yearned for his presence and heat more which made their nights all the more awkward. She watched his focused look, his strong large hands, his once massive arms that barely reached their former size now, in spite of Roland's effort to regain his former shape; she closely watched his mouth, the sweat rolling down his nose, his bright hair shining under the sun. she swallowed a moan each grunts he made and blushed thinking about him so boldly.

Roland was aware of her eyes on him and tried not to choke on his spit. His heart rammed against his ribs seemingly about to break them, and blushed with nervousness. She watched him, he knew it, with the same eyes that he watched her often. Nevertheless, he did not mean to raise his expectations to high. If he was mistaken, then his pride would bleed on him. Roland tried not to think about her eyes, her lips and her hair, not to think about her entrancing hips and mesmerizing voice. The mere thought brought shivers down his spine and a low groan.

“That was the last one.” he said, gesturing towards the log he just cut.

Ide gulped and nodded. “That will suffice for this Winter.” she croaked.

“Yes.” Roland said back, his arms hanging loosely on his side. He was comfortable wielding an ax for her comfort but was not yet ready for the sword. Unsheathing a sword again would break that frail peace he just earned. “Say,” he nervously said. “I had an idea.”

Ide rose an eyebrow and Roland laughed.

“Don't fret.” he said. “I wanted us to make the most of this warm and merciful weather. It is rather hot and I am sweating as you can see.”

“I can.” Ide choked.

Roland smiled. “What do you say we go to the river and bathe there?”

Ide returned the grin. “Tell me I stink, that'll be quicker.”

Roland put his hand on his heart, pretending to be shocked. “I would never, my lady.”

Ide laughed. “Let me take some fresh linens and other clothes and I shall be right there. In the meantime, clean up.” she winked an disappeared for some time.

Roland froze for a moment, gazing at where she disappeared and sighed. His heart seemed as though it was going to burst out in a thousand pieces. He nearly felt like crying but breathed it away while complying to Ide's orders.

She came back a short while after and they both headed for the river. While once they spent an hour walking, then, they walked there in half the former time.

Ide removed her over-worn shoes and dipped a toe in the water. She yelped. “It's cold!”

Roland laughed one more and Ide's heart skipped a beat. His laugh was so carefree, so communicative she felt like laughing herself. “With this heat, a little cold will do you good.” he grunted as he removed all of his clothes but his underpants.

Ide suddenly grew red and hot and hid her eyes, hearing a loud splash in front of her. She was forced to remove the hands, for Roland now spattered water all over her dress.

“Stop!” she giggled.

“Come swim with me.”

Ide looked around. “I can't. My dress...” she closed her mouth, flustered.

Roland grinned. “Come. Enjoy it. I am waiting for you.”

Ide rolled her eyes and hesitantly unlaced her overdress only to find herself dressed in a thin gown that reached her calf. She suddenly grew aware of her pointing tits and hid them with her arms. She had laid with a man before but still, it felt uncomfortable the way men looked at her. It made her ashamed of her own body, too self-aware to ever be carefree again.

She heard Roland laugh, felt his strong hand grab her wrist and he pulled her into the water. Ide gave a scream and laughed while coming back to the surface. The water was cold, but it felt good cleansing oneself after so long a time without getting rid of filth. It felt almost a rebirth.

Roland laughed before he choked on it and blushed. Ide's gown was thin and white. Naturally, the gown hid nothing anymore.

“Sorry.” he said.

Ide looked at herself and was embarrassed for a moment. Then, she looked at Roland, averting his eyes, all chivalrous. He blushed and she knew that although he took great pleasure in the sight of her bare breasts, he had too much respect not to be embarrassed for her. Ide smiled and walked, without hiding anything. She trusted him now. It had been long, but she trusted him.

She stood in front of him confident in nakedness, her breasts openly showing, her gown sticking to her skin with a freshness that contrasted with the sun's warmth, her hair wet and soaked, stuck to her jaw, her legs, joined to the gown. There was nothing to hide anymore. She was completely open to him.

She bit her lips gazing at his muscle-growing chest and roamed it with her fingers until her hand found his chin. Slowly, each of her touches electrifying him, she turned his head to hers and locked her pale eyes in the green of his.

“I trust you.” she breathed.

Roland closed his eyes and threw his head back, savoring this ecstasy. Her breath no longer had this alcohol stench, her hands were fresher than anything and when he gazed back at her, he suddenly grew aroused by the simplicity of her being, raw breasts, curvy hips, firm legs, thin fingers. He kissed her thumb, wanting more of her. He drew her closer and inhaled her so fresh a scent. Ide moaned and suddenly he yearned for her lips, as sinful it was to him.

She drew his mouth to hers, her lips grazing his, hearing his groan and breath heavily. She smiled almost kissing him and pulled back, swimming away with a devilish grin.

“You!” Roland laughed, breathless with emotion. “You fooled me.” his legs released the tension and he bent the knee in the river.

“I won! I made the knight bend the knee!” she claimed, mimicking a soldier who would have prevailed against an army. “Bend now, to your queen and ruler.”

“Never.” Roland spattered her once more and she yelped, laughing out loud.

Ide dove under the surface and grabbed his ankle to pull him under water. Roland swam back over it and spat water. “You!”

“I won again.” she tilted her head under his, her breasts grazing his chest.

Roland had a hard time catching his breath back. Each sight of her she gave him were all so delightful he hardly could contain his burning passion.

“So?” she asked. “Will you bend to your queen?”

Roland's mouth spread to a wide toothy grin. “I bend the knee, fair lady, to you. May your reign be long, oh great queen and may you rule us as fairly as you can.” he solemnly said before breaking into laughter. “My queen, I would wish to celebrate your reign.”

Ide frowned. “How, my knight?”

Roland smiled mischievously and suddenly set his arms under her back and legs to throw her in the air. Ide gave a screech but it soon turned laughter while Roland yelled about how long she may reign. Ide laughed and laughed again, her smile wider than ever. Roland's heart warmed hearing it. She had cried for too long. Now he relished her laugh.

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the water like children, spattering each other, making swim contests, contesting about who could hold their breath the longest and fooling around in the river. Ide still felt naked but the idea was stuck so far in her mind that it no longer mattered. Roland was still aroused but for now, he only wished to be with Ide and play with her. Both were happy that afternoon, happier than ever after the plague and the crusade. In the water, nothing mattered. In the water there was no dead to mourn, no crusade to dread about, no plague to drink about. In the water, they lived only for the moment.

They laid on a fresh linen, drying under the sun. Ide turned and locked her eyes in his and for the first time, she realized she might have been in love with him longer than she imagined. She had only put it away so far off it had felt unreal. But it was real and now, she knew that she loved him.

Birds tweeted above as a gentle wind made the leaves and the trees sing. The sun had not yet dipped below the horizon yet the light there grew orange while the last rays of Summer finished to warm up the Ide and Roland's skin.

“In Syria, it feels like Summer all the time.” Roland sighed. “This reminds me of my lands, of this new home.” of Hugues.

Ide turned to face him. “What is it like? Tell me more.”

Roland smiled, his eyes locked on her lips. “I should like to take you there someday.” he confessed. “You would love it. It is so different from here. First off, there are no pine trees, no forests covered with moss, no mud, no river lined with high grass. There are no houses like ours, no dim buildings. There, it feels grander. There, the ground is yellow and it is either sand or rock. There are a few portions of grass if I am to be honest and quite many fields, but they are as seldom as there is water. The trees are high with but a few leaves and the fruit they give are all so delicious. There is this one thing; pomegranate, I think you would like it.”

Ide blinked. “What does it taste like?”

“Soft and sugary.” Roland said softly. “You would also love their food. They use a lot of spice there and it always manages to surprise you. They make the finest wine I have ever tasted.” Roland sighed and looked at the sky. “This is a promising land and I want to make it good. There, there are no high gray walls for small fortresses, but massive walls reaching the sky, guarding a bustling city that seems made of marble, with its elegant arches, with its rich marketplaces. The spice can dazzle you much too quickly, the craft make you succumb to greed. That is a place of temptation but a place beautiful nonetheless.”

Ide mechanically held his hand. She wanted to see what he was talking about. It was the first time she considered leaving her green dwelling.

“They have weird horses.” he continued. “They have toes and humps and they call them camels. They carry riches from the east, silks, jewelry, spices and carpets from Persia. I have even seen some of those Chinese men they speak about in Paris and London. True it is not in Jerusalem you might see all of this, but Constantinople is the world and the world is Constantinople.” he said. “Their women are just as beautiful as their men.” he grew grim. “And now I long to come back and mend what I did wrong there. I want my people to prosper, not to suffer my rule.”

“I should love to see this land.” she pondered. “I imagine it must be beautiful.”

“Oh it is!” Roland said enthusiastically. “The desert is quite something, though, but a ride between the mountains or to the sea is worth every treasure. The palaces are made of white stone and marble and the pillars are carved with intricate designs, the roofs gleams under the sun like gold and the songs seem to rise towards the sky like some sacred smoke.”

Ide smiled beside him. His eyes suddenly lit up with hope and excitement and she could feel how much he longed for this place of his to grow prosperous. “You love that land, don't you?” she asked.

“I have grown to love it, yes.” Roland confessed. His face suddenly beamed. “You have to see where they heal people! They call it hospitals and there are so many men in here tending wounds! You should see where they teach too! They have so much knowledge and so much skills I have no doubt you already know! You would love it! Samar would love it!”

Ide's eyes grew dim. “Samar says that everywhere men will fear a wise woman who knows more than them. She says that if men feels threatened in their power they will cast me down.” she said. “I wouldn't love it. Samar wouldn't love it. To them we would be intruders. To them, we would be a threat and they would kill us or worse.” she shook her head and gave him a sorry look. “There is no place for me there. Although it sounds rather nice.”

Roland grazed her fingers and took her hand to kiss it. “I hope, at least that you can find a place with me. If you came with me back in my lands, I would be the happiest man.” he cursed himself for those words.

Ide smiled and wiggled closer to him. “If you showed me the world, I would be a content woman.” she breathed.

Roland sighed. For a moment, there was silence as they locked eyes, their lips back to grazing each other. But this time, Roland pulled closer and pressed his mouth against her with a low muff.

Ide started under this sudden touch but relaxed and gave in, kissing him back, groaning with pleasure as he trailed kissed along her jawline, her throat, her breasts, his hand gripping her side, pulling her closer, lingering on her ass. Roland moaned on her skin and Ide responded with her own. She let him press his hand on her breasts while he lifted her gown to kiss her knees, then her thighs, her hips, her stomach. Ide whined every caress of his and dug her fingers deep in his hair, gasping for more.

He kept on covering her with his hands, claiming her chest with his hands, claiming her lips with his, biting hers while he groaned and moaned his pleasure. She felt good under his hands. She felt good against his lips. She felt good and he wanted more.

Suddenly, he was on his back as Ide strode him. He marveled at her for a moment before she cupped his head in her hands and leaned to kiss him from the corner of his mouth, to his eyes, to his neck, to his ears. Roland groaned and grabbed her waist.

“Do you...” he began.

“Shhh.” Ide placed a finger on his mouth and leaned back to kiss him, towering over him.

With pleasure they groaned and moaned, danced and sweat, rode each other until they came, claiming all the parts of their bodies, grazing, touching, licking. They laughed and giggled in the grass, freely enjoying their love-making, away from kings, away from throngs, away from everything but them.

It was a calm afternoon full of warmth. Ide was alive and she loved someone. Roland was alive and loved someone. It was more than enough and for the first time, the eventuality of a bright future laid before them.

 

The afternoon ended and they headed back towards the house under a reddening sun. They both laughed, joked and smiled on the way home and Roland shared an idea that they should light a fire outside and eat there, under the sight of the stars. Ide had her doubts about it since fire gave a hint of presence away but Roland finished to convince her saying that “No one will attack us and walk out full.”. So Ide lit a large fire and birthed it while Roland kissed her forehead saying he took charge of their dinner. He owed her at least that.

Ide sat on a large log placed around the fire and drank a small cup of ale for the freshness of it. She licked her lips and sighed with content. It was a good day. She felt alive for the first time in a dark eternity.

Roland came to sit beside her some time later, roasting venison hunted by Mahaut, handing her bread and cider-soaked rabbit with some pastries and a little gruel with it. The meat grew a glistening crust and the herbs delicately filled the air, the pasties smelled of honey and gleamed with firelight, fruits and berries topping it with a delicious greed. The cider-soaked rabbit let out a tasteful juice in the plate and even the gruel smelled of thyme, berries and mead. It was a rich meal for Ide and she licked her lips with greed.

“I thought you would like it.” Roland said with a tender smile. “Take a bite.”

Each piece of what Roland had cooked smelled delicious and tasted the same. Ide groaned with pleasure as her mouth exploded with flavors. She moaned when the bread crust cracked under her teeth, growled when the meat melted in her mouth, sighed when she dug her teeth into the venison. A shiver of pleasure ran down her spine as her entire body seemed warmed by that hot food. It just missed spiced wine and that would be a feast fit for kings. Roland was a good cook, perhaps better than her.

“How?” she asked.

“You know, there are but a few cooks in crusade and they often cook only for kings and princes. Hugues taught me to cook and now I can make meals fit for kings.” he said with pride.

Ide smiled, her mouth stuffed with food. That sight made Roland laugh. She was finally healing back and regaining that weight she lost. Her cheeks were fuller, her hips were too and her waist was curvier than before. She was in good shape and Roland thought her all the more charming. He tenderly loved her and this was cruelty from his heart, for he was bound to other eyes. Roland couldn't afford to fall for her more than he already did and kiss her, enjoy her warmth – not that it bothered him in crusade – but he bent the knee to his heart and now he couldn't help his happiness of enjoying moments with her.

It was cruel of him to love her, crueler was the taste of her lips that lingered on his. He yearned to kiss her again. He yearned for her skin and her breasts, her hips, her thighs, her feet. He longed to kiss her whole and roam her entirely with his mouth while he would claim her limbs with his hands.

Ide fell back on the ground, holding her stomach, sighing with ease. “I can't.” she breathed. “I am full. This was so good!” she exclaimed.

Roland laid beside her and gently drew her closer. He grazed her neck with his lips, desiring more of her, hungry for her being.

Ide laughed, that same laugh that made him laugh. “You're tickling me.”

Roland chuckled beside her. “Sorry.” he said.

Ide blinked at the sky. She was alive. “It was a good day.” in her eyes pearled tears of joy.

“Truly?” he asked.

“Yes. It was a day I dreamed but never imagined could be true. It was...” she shed a tear. “It was more beautiful than anything.” she sobbed.

Roland gently wiped off her tears and cradled her against his chest. “Are you sad?” he asked while he rubbed her back.

Ide laughed. “No. Quite the opposite.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Good.”

Wolves suddenly howled in the distance and Roland tensed, reaching for a knife. Ide pressed her hand on his. “Don't worry. They don't come here. They never do.”

Roland gulped and nodded, appeased by her voice and hand. “I thought it a good day too.” he said. “I guess I was happy. It is the first time in such a long time I still am wary to call the word and to assume the best.”

“With Hugues?” asked Ide.

Roland shook his head fighting guilt and sorrow back. “I was happy with him too. But being happy while drowning in horror is a poor thing compared to being happy in time of peace. One is soothing, the other exultant.” he gently stroke her cheek and locked his eyes in hers. “Are you happy?”

Ide gave a sad sigh. “There can be no happiness for the likes of us. Still, I am content. You make it seem less true.” she kissed his cheek. “I know how precious those moments are. It is fickle, but I suppose my content has been made by you.”

There was a long moment of silence broken only by Night who came to purr beside its masters, owls crying and wolves howling. Roland was still nervous but knew how to relax in Ide's arms. He wished he could stay with her forever. He felt good with her. He felt as though he could be normal again.

“I have a secret.” Ide breathed, biting her lips.

Roland frowned. “What?” he knew she had kept things from him but also that so seldom were her confessions that he should relish them.

Ide gulped. “My name is not Ide.” she said. “I chose that name after the plague, when everything that made me me died and burned with my parents, my brother and sisters and my,” she gave a breath between a choke and a sob. “my betrothed.” she finally said.

So she had been betrothed and he died. Suddenly Roland grew jealous but also sad. He drew her closer and pressed her against him. “What was your name?” he softly asked.

“Martha.” Ide confessed. She suddenly escaped from his arms and locked her eyes on his.“But call me Ide, for it is who I am. I was Martha once, but she died long ago with shattered dreams and dead prospects. Martha belongs there, in the pyre, burning till nothing remains but Ide; for Ide wanders there, with the living, with regrets and all the pains of life. There is no need to call the dead. They cannot hear you.”

Roland softly gazed upon her and tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Whatever your name, you remain Ide to me; Ide who saved me, Ide, my angel.” he declared. “To me, that is who you are.”

Ide gave a hesitant smile. “Thank you.” she kissed his palm and saw him give a sharp breath, electrified by her touch.

“So you were betrothed?” Roland suddenly asked, sitting back.

Ide gave a sorrowful sigh and brought her knees back to her chest. “Yes.” she breathed. “Tom, he was named. He was a fine brewer, a kind man with a gentle laugh who loved children. He loved me and cared not about some purity or some rumors that I was a witch. He respected me whole and thought me talented at ale brewing.” she gave a smile. “Fate willed he would be right.” she turned a strand of hair in her fingers. “I did not love him, though. But marrying him was the brightest future I could have ever dreamed of. Surely I would not have loved him, but having him as a husband was to me a vision of happiness.” she grew grim and bitter. “Love is so rare in these dark times, in this world. Love is for fools, children and dreamers alike.”

 _Agreed_. “Have you loved before?” Roland asked, mechanically reaching for her hand.

Ide smiled. “Yes.” she confessed. “He was a minstrel, a wanderer and told great stories. He took my maidenhead away with him and left be embarrassed.” her eyes grew hollow and she suppressed a sob, hiding her eyes with her hand. “He left me nothing. He left and then my baby died before it could have been born and baptized. My father hated him and swore to kill him if he ever came back, but I loved that man more than I could and he left. I had nothing after him. I thought I was nothing. He took me everything beside a part of me that shall never grow back.”

“Did Tom knew?” his voice was full of pity.

Ide gulped and nodded. “He didn't care. He wanted to make me a happy woman.”

“I want you a happy woman.” Roland murmured to himself. “You would have had skilled children.” he said instead.

Ide's cheeks reddened with tears and sadness. “No.” she croaked. “No. There would have been no children.” she reached for her empty womb.

“Why is that?” asked Roland, confused.

Ide gave a pained smile and feverishly wiped off her tears. “After the miscarriage I had no children. I couldn't. I stopped bleeding.” she said. “I can have children no longer.” she said. “That is good no one shall marry me. That is good,” she said, killing all hopes she had that he would say he wished to wed her. “My prospects would be so limited.”

Roland gulped and guilt came back striking him. He wanted to tell her he loved her, he wanted to take her with him, to marry her, but he couldn't and his first impulse was reaching for his heart to discard it away.

“My parents used to have a farm. The farm burned with them. My sisters were betrothed. They died with their husbands-to-be. My little brother,” she gulped and cried once more. “he should have grown and become a fine man to take our father's place. He died before he reached ten summers.” she sobbed. “Mary's husband didn't die. He will keep her away from me. I have nothing left.” her face was all snot and tears. “I could have wed and build a prosperous endeavor with a husband that could have loved me. I would have had children and build a legacy, I could have relished my sisters' laughter, I could have embraced my mother some more, heard my father some more. I could have had a life full of blessings but I became a curse.” she gave a sharp breath and swallowed her tears. “I am a healer. I couldn't heal them. I lost them and it is my fault. Now there is nothing left for me but the void.”

Roland frowned. “What do you mean?” her tears shattered his heart and he wanted to tell her that she was no responsible for plagues but kept it shut, fearing that he might break her trance.

Ide sniffled and grew calmer, her wails gone. “It is hard to explain...” she said, lowering eyes dried over the years. “There is an endless void within that prevents me from ever enjoying life, or even smile and be optimistic; so I wander, I breathe, keep myself tremendously busy not to think about my hollow existence and that future I don't see myself having, but still, I cannot enjoy things for all that. I endure life, I bear it with resignation, I do not live it; so much that it becomes pointless and I want it to end, for it has become a habit, now, this void, this sadness; it stick to your bones and your soul and soon you only feel good when you're a wreck and it becomes as comfortable as home. It is my life now; if I don't weep, I die. It has become a tool for survival. Then, if it is to suffer, why even bother breathing?”

Roland set himself closer to her and gently pat her back. He understood what she spoke of; that loss of a part of himself, of that innocence children bore. He understood that inevitable and cruel change for those who had lost too much, seen too much. It could be worse, but it could also be better.

Ide gave another sharp breath and grew serious. “I can never discard the emptiness. It will be embedded to me forever and when I will die, everything that will lie under the ground will be a gaping void.” she solemnly declared. She gave a nervous laugh. “Funny how they spoke of mighty knights saving damsels in the stories I've heard. You even share your name with that valiant hero they sing of.” she locked her eyes in his and smiled bitterly. “Will you save me?”

Roland worked his fingers around hers. “No.” he breathed. “That is a path you must walk alone. But I will be there to shoulder you.” he gave a smile. “You are braver than you think, Ide. In battle, the key to victory is to keep moving.” he kissed her hand. “You must keep moving.”

“What if I can't?” she asked.

“What if you can?” he replied. “I understand what you went through,” my love “but you can't let yourself sink watching others climb the mountain.”

Ide chuckled. “That is exactly how it feels. You're drowning deeper and deeper and you see people climb higher and higher through a surface that misshapes everything.” she looked at him. “You do understand. Was it that way when Hugues died?”

Roland gave a sorry smile. “Yes. I thought I would never ever be happy again. I wanted to die.” he brushed her cheeks with his hand. “Until I met you, I have never thought I could be met with such a bliss.”

“Until you met me?” her smile was full of mischievousness. “Does that mean I make you happy?”

Roland returned the smile. “This and more.”

He leaned on to her lips and drawing her chin to his with his fingers, gently grazed her mouth, pressing on it a gentle kiss just as soft as summer's breeze. She moaned and smiled against his lips, savoring this softness, and her life she had just opened her eyes to. He trailed kisses on the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her nose, her neck, her throat, then her mouth.

His touch was gentle, oh so gentle, brushing her skin as though he was afraid of hurting her. Ide relished his warm and gave up all her inhibitions, cupping his cheek in her own hand, roaming his hair, finally giving in, letting herself love and finally be content.

It had been a good day. Ide was alive and although darkness still remained, it was now a dull gray, not dark enough to cloud her sight. Roland, so cruel a lover, finally discarded his demons and fears, feeling some peace at last.

Summer had been kind to Ide. Summer had been kind to Roland. They finally yielded. Now was the time for joy, for winter, for light to dim and for hearths to gleam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that 2/3 of this story is written! So apparently Ide and Roland have grown quite close and they had sexxxxxxx! Be ready to wait a tad longer for a next update cause I still need to plan the five next chapters. I promise it ends well! Also Ide's period have stopped cause she drinks a lot and has problems with her ovaries. It'll be really hard for her to have children (Sorry, Roro I know you were expecting children with her hair and your eyes).  
> Anywhoo, I hope you liked this chapter. Thank you for reading you awesome readers!


	11. Trust

 

He woke up, like every day since he decided to trust her, lying beside her, her face resting against his chest, his arms coiled around her curves, her face so tranquil, almost serene. Her hair tickled him and he almost laughed at the mess of strands and locks on his skin. If her hair smelled divine and was in every aspects what he preferred about her physique, it was still hair and in the morning she needed to comb it, for she seldom braided it into a plait, much to Roland's appreciation.

A sudden gale of cold wind shook the door and Roland winced while nesting deeper into the rabbit furs – a gift from Mahaut's huntings – the soft linen and three layers of rough wool covers.

“Cold.” he grumbled for himself.

He relaxed as his eyes fell on Ide's sleeping face beside him. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and snuggled closer, to touch her, feel her entirely through her gown and his tunic. In Syria, they would need not those requirements. Although the nights in the desert were cold, people there knew how to keep heat in.

Much to his guilt, this greedy monster he kept feeding, Roland had laid with her more than once and their nights, contrary to the cold winds of autumn, were warm and hot, full of moans and delights. They knew their bodies better than themselves and let the other discover it like a new land to marvel about.

He had been betrothed to Constance for four years now, but four months with Ide were worth a thousand years of betrothal. He knew her. She knew him – she knew enough of what he wished her to know, that is. With Constance, it was all hovering concepts, unfinished ideas, a life he could not fathom, with Ide, it was certainty; he knew how they would wake up in the same bed, how they would talk, how they would eat and drink; how they would love.

He could not say it, yet, Roland knew he loved her. Perhaps she loved him too. It was cruelty to hope she would, crueler was it to let her picture a long lasting love when his hand and word has been engaged to someone long ago, before even he met her or Hugues. Back then he did not know what love was, he could not even conceive it other than in his hose. But then Hugues happened and he discovered love. Ide only confirmed it.

He gently brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and she stirred in his arms, pulling herself closer, mumbling some gibberish and whimpering. His nights had never been so peaceful. Her breath had never been fresher.

It was at this moment Night jumped onto the bed, straight on Roland's stomach.

“Oumf!” he yelped, curtly starting, awakening Ide in the process.

“What the -” she began. “Roland you woke me up?” she sounded confuse.

“Not my intention. Trust me.” Roland managed to say with a hoarse voice, his breath cut. “You are so beautiful when you are asleep.” he tried to sound charming.

Ide smiled. “Am I? Really?” Night purred against her, rubbing his nose on hers. “You snore when you are sleeping.” she rose an eyebrow and laughed.

Roland chuckled. “Better this than the screams, don't you think?” he took her hand in his and mercilessly kissed her fingertips.

Ide's smile faded. “Yes.” she breathed. “You whimper a lot, though. Your dreams are still haunted, I suppose.”

Roland grew grim. “They still dance, it is true. I relive my greatest sins and terrors at night, like the monster I am.” for he was monstrous even in love.

“I told you before: you are not a monster. Not to me at least.” she kissed his neck. “And you did not whimper last night. You were calm. What to say about it other that you are not as bad as you think?”

Roland scoffed, culprit of deceit unbeknown to whom he thought was a gift of God. “You were not as calm as I was.” he said, frowning. “You hit me.”

“Did I?” she suddenly seemed guilty. “Sorry.” she kissed his knuckles.

Bells rang in the distance. Roland grew aloof and rose to open the window, revealing the yet thick fog of the morning, a shroud over Summer's ground.

Ide gazed at his back and grew somber. Sunday. She pictured Mary at church, Mahaut by her side as well as her husband-to-be, Joseph – Joseph. What did he think of her now? Were they still friends? - and Peter, scorning as always to everything that was different, that threatened the power in place. She pictured the priest too, this bald weakling, haughty, stupid enough to let the monks of the priory get into his head, following their mindset. She pictured them all and shivered. There had been a time she stood amongst them all, a time she wished she could still, and a time where she preferred looking at Roland's back, the memory of a peaceful night still covering the shifts of the bed with a musky scent and a fresh smell of roses. She liked it here. She liked it with him.

She drew her hand towards him, trying to catch his figure with a smile. “Come back to bed.”

Roland turned back and gave her one of those toothy grins full of light and happiness. “God is calling.” yet he danced with the devil in his deceitful behavior. “I must pray.”

Ide rolled back on the bed and groaned. “I want no prayer in this house. Get out and take your sword if you must.”

“But it is cold outside!” Roland frantically gestured to the window as to give weight to his words.

Ide groaned and threw furs and clothes at him. “Then get dressed and go to the cabin, wrap yourself in fur and don't drink my brew!”

“Praying? In a place full of alcohol? You can't be serious!”

“I am.” Ide growled. “Now get out before I give you chase with Night.” she took the cat in her hands and brandished him above her face, his body all numb his paws drawn to her mouth. The cat pressed his pink pads on her lips and mewed. Ide chuckled.

Roland looked at her and a rush of tenderness took him. She was cute. He yearned to protect her. Her happiness suddenly became the most important thing on earth and her smile his most treasured sight. “As you wish.” he bent to kiss her cheek before he got dressed and exited the house.

“And fetch me some water!” Ide yelled, not able to see his rolling eyes.

Yet still, she heard his songs, his muttering, his pleas to God. Ide groaned again, put Night back on the bed and rose in her gown, wrapping herself in her bed shifts and sat near the smoldering hearth, putting back a log for warmth. Roland had been useful when it came to this. He was a good provider.

It had been more than a season now and Roland cut wood, prepared food, repaired what needed to be fixed, swept the floor and helped Ide tend the fire or even cleaning their clothes in the river. Roland was a presence that was once almost unbearable but was not indispensable. Ide loved him here. She no longer woke up smelling of ale, covered with tears, distressed and depressed; she now woke up, satisfied, smelling of his musk, intoxicated by his mere self.

While he prayed, she began to prepare her morning meal, fed Night gently pet him, moved the log and set the table for two. It was at this moment that Roland came back, his sword hanging on his side, holding a bucket of water with difficulty. Ide smiled and placed a sizzling rock in it for warm water. Both washed their limbs, erasing the scent of the night to replace it with some perfume Roland had brought back from Holy Land that had not been stolen on his path home.

When they dressed, they sat around the table and ate. Roland tidied it all and went behind Ide to comb her hair. She shivered as his fingertips grazed her scalp, as his hand gently stroked her hair, his fingers untangling them before he brought the comb on it. Ide closed her eyes and sighed.

“Did you dream well?” he asked.

Ide grew somber. “I had a nightmare.” she said.

“Oh.” Roland froze before he roamed her hair again. “What was it about.”

She lowered her head, nervously twisting the fabric of her wool overdress. “I dreamed about that man I killed. I saw his distorted face, heard his gargle, saw the red on his blood stain my skin so deep that if even I removed it, I could not get rid of it. Saw his eyes, his bones, his flesh, a pattern of guts covering the ground, his severed body.” she gave chase to some tears with the palm of her hand while Roland's hands grew gentler. “I relived his murder. I know it was necessity but the guilt adds to it all.”

“I am sorry.” he kissed the top of her head. “He will come back to haunt you. Ghosts are relentless, this one more, since you are a life-bearer.” he sighed. “He took a part of you that will never grow back.”

Ide gave a bitter scoff. “As if it was not enough.”

“But,” he objected. “It is no fatality. It can be numbed somehow, atoned until it becomes just a bearable weight.” he stopped and stroke his beard. “I suppose the secret lies in confidence. You have to let the ghosts escape through your words.” he gave a tender smile. “I know it helps me.”

Ide nodded and gave a smile. His words alone resonated with love. “What did you dream of?” she asked. “The demons again?”

Roland chuckled and nodded as to say no. “Far from it. It was a nice dream.” a beautiful one that ended in anguish. He recalled what he saw in his dream and suddenly was crushed by shame but also hope. In his dreams, she stood in a church, a luxurious dress falling to the fair flagstones of God's house, a flower crown holding her veil as Stephen, his sworn brothers and his men as well as the king of Jerusalem were gathered around the altar. He saw the priest waiting for his arrival. He recalled himself, his long tunic reaching the ground, then suddenly growing roots. He tried to escape but he couldn't and was condemned to look at Ide, betrayed, still and yet moving away.

In his dreams, he was about to marry Ide. It brought him a sense of longing and he knew no vision of his has ever been so delightful. He saw himself happy, a great improvement from the demons.

Roland suddenly frowned. “Are you certain that you will not grow pregnant?” he asked.

“Why?” Ide mischievously asked. “Are you afraid You might become a father? Or are you afraid you _won't_ be one?”

Roland rolled his eyes and groaned. “I was just inquiring on your health but if you don't like it then maybe I ought to sew my mouth shut.”

Ide laughed and Roland's heart skipped a beat. “Don't worry.” she said. “I told you before. I have not bled for a year and even if I were to be with child, it would die.” her voice grew sad.

Roland let go of her hair and knelt to her. He took her hand in his and wiped off a tear of grief. “For what is worth, my nights with you are full of life. My nights with you... With you – I believe in life again.”

“My children would die anyway, no matter how sweet our nights.” Ide almost lamented.

“Have you tried?”

Ide shook her head. “No. Not after the miscarriage.”

“Then you don't know for sure. You cannot expect for things to be like what you imagine. You cannot know you will fail or succeed unless you try.”

Ide smiled and pressed her hand against his cheek. “Wise man.” she murmured. “I cannot have children without my monthly blood. Roland, be sure that I can give you no children, no matter our love-making.”

Roland grinned. “They would be handsome children though. They would get your hair, your nose, your strength. They...” he froze mid-sentence, Constance's face rushing to his mind, a swelling belly under the rich fabric of her dress. Roland sighed sadly and closed his eyes. He couldn't afford to dream his life when he was already committed to another one. His eyes grew sad. “They would be good.” he said, not daring enough to dream further.

“They are children born from dreams, children only thought.” Ide gave him an encouraging smile. “Those are children I cannot incarnate.”

He nodded and stood back, cutting short to this conversation. Night came to rub his fur against his ankles and Roland gently patted him, sitting in front of her, glancing at her when she wasn't looking, yearning to offer her the world.

It was hard, looking at her in the eye, knowing her, her weaknesses, the frailty of her barriers, what it would take to crumble it all down; knowing precisely how easily she would fall, how hard would the fall be, how threatening the outcome to her mindset, to her will to live. It was hard considering it all while knowing it would fatally break one day or the other.

 

Roland was in better shape now. As much as his wounds healed, his mind was not so completely ready for warfare again. He knew he needed to get back to it though. His muscles were that of a woodcutter, a peasant, a man made for the things of daily life. He firmly intended on serving the king of Jerusalem, to fight his battles, to win his wars and to do so he knew he must be a warrior. A warrior had no use of a peasant body, especially if such warrior led troops.

He was used to wield an ax now, but a sword was different. For a start, he decided to train with heavy sticks and every day, after he ate with Ide, brought back some water, prayed and tended her house the best he could – it had never been more comfortable – he set off to work on it, slashing a tree, thrusting the stick end at it, each time swifter, trained to wield heavy weights, carried stones, ran muscled a body once aching from wounds, now aching with effort.

He lamented he had no one to train with – Ide was busy with her house, her ale-brewing and her hives and he wouldn't bother her with that, especially since he knew she abhorred swords – for he knew that it was necessary to sharpen his reflexes. Often he went to the river and jumped from one rock to the other to regain his balance. When it became too easy, he did it carrying heavy weights.

He worked his body in the morning and his technique in the afternoon. For weeks he had trained, got himself used to the heavy attire of the crusader – not that he was too eager to leave Ide – but had never touched his sword.

One way or the other, one must cease fighting with wooden claws. That day had come for Roland. Ide helped him in his mail, tied his helm around his neck and followed him outside, carrying his sword.

“Are you sure?” she asked with concern – a little fear looking at his warring figure.

Roland gulped and nodded. Ide gently handed him his rich weapon and Roland, at first hesitant, gripped the handle. At that moment, the sensation of steel in his hand, of his mail on his back, of his helm tightly attached to his head brought back all of the crusade at once. It had been more than a year since it was over but he saw the vivid pictures of blood. When once he thought he had nightmared them, now it was all too vivid, too real. If he cared enough to look, Saracen blood still stained the iron of his mail.

“Roland?” Ide's gentle voice called. “Are you alright?”

He snapped out of his trance and realized he was shaking. He tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I am.”

“Do you want me to stay? I could watch over you, sing when you are unwell.” she offered.

He gulped and nodded. “As you wish.” he croaked.

Ide gave a smile, gently took his face in her palm and placed a kiss on his helm. “I'll be right here.” she said.

Roland mouthed a 'thank you' and she set off to sit on a log, not far from the tree Roland worked on slashing.

He unsheathed the blade in a grating sound of metal, of war. The light danced on the blade and suddenly it came back, that wrathful light in the eyes of the warrior. Gritting, frowning and growling, Roland brandished the sword tight, worked on his posture, his feet, slashed and thrust the air, waved it around him. The sword was heavier than sticks, but lighter than his mil or the stones he had carried. The mail made his groan in annoyance. He had forgotten how heavy it was and wondered how he managed to battle with it in the middle of the desert without dying.

Each movement he did, he groaned, but within a few minutes, he grew accustomed to it. He began slashing the tree, grunted when the blade went too far deep, struggling to get it off. He worried its sharpness might be damaged by the exercise but he trusted the Germans well enough to craft good swords. He slashed up, down, struck the sides, worked around the tree, each times faster, changed feet, used the sheath to strike the lower part of the trunk as though it was the legs of an enemy, reduced the tree to a gaping wound, sweat, worked against his dizzy head, taking breaks when needed to. Soon, he entered this warring rage again, this will to prevail.

The crusader was back. He relaxed his tense muscles and everything became easier. His instincts were back, not that they ever left him.

While he raged around the tree, giving it a waist, Ide gazed him over, entranced by his movements, admiring this peculiar grace that took him once a sword in his hands. He was strong, a marvel of muscles and wrath and if she was afraid, lust and awe trumped it all over. She bit her lips and mechanically stroked her hips.

He was beautiful and terrible in his element. He was like those creatures they sung of in the stories, dragons, mighty beasts angels slew; but he was an angel too, for no man had ever shown her the respect he did.

Ide suddenly snapped back to reality and frowned as she saw him weakening. He had mesmerized her for a long hour and he grew tired. She felt him about to fain and rushed to him to hold him tight. She guided him towards the log and removed his attire, cursing the mail yet again for being too heavy.

She noticed he shook when ridden of his steel and she gently kissed his cheek before she fetched him some water. She had been afraid for his survival once, now brought it all back.

He must have sensed she was somehow worried for he took her hand in his and played a smile. “You need not worry. I am well.”

“Well?” Ide scoffed almost as to mask her distress. “Then why are you shaking?”

Roland shrugged. “The effort I believe. It has been a while and it has been tiresome. Nothing fresh water, food and rest can't solve.”

Ide breathed her fears out and played a smile of her own. “Then go and rest.” she said. “I will prepare something for you.”

“Do you need a hand?” he asked.

“No.” she said. “What I need is for you to lay still.” her face grew menacing. “If you don't I will knock you out.”

Roland chuckled. “I have had enough of battles for today, thank you very much.”

“Good. Then get inside. Let me tend you as always.”

“My good healer.” he tenderly purred, his arms around her, walking towards the house; towards their bed. He would need her in Syria. But she wouldn't be there he remembered. He couldn't take her as a mistress. He would rather burn alive than seeing her disgraced and shamed. His love for her was temptation from the devil but never had temptation been holier, or better.

In the following days, Roland floated between training sessions and rest each day managing to be swifter, more enduring, but always shaking afterwards – to such an extent Ide worried for his health and well-being.

It had now been a month of autumn, leaves fell everywhere covering the ground with reds and oranges while thick puffs of mist rose from the soil to wander around in the brisk of the evening or dawn. Samar visited seldom, Mahaut did not come anymore, but Ide was content with merely Roland, and Roland was content with only Ide.

It was after an intense afternoon working to chop down the tree like a knight which ended with shakes that Ide submitted an idea for their consideration.

“To relax your muscles, perhaps we could bathe together in hot water.” she said.

Roland laughed. “How would you find hot water?”

Ide flicked his forehead. “This training made you dumber than I thought.” Roland frowned and Ide laughed. “Hot stones in water. Isn't that the way to make hot water around here?”

Roland groaned. “God grant me the patience with that woman.” before he lifted her in the air with a smile and swung her around before he sheltered her in a warm embrace.

So it was settled and a tub filled with hot water perfumed with oils and flowers was set outside, for it was not yet too cold to be shivering even in hot water, the stones having been set ablaze at the very core of an inferno.

Ide had brought her finest mead to drink and as she poured herself some of it, hesitated. If she drank, she knew she would need more. She always needed more. Instead she prepared herself some herbal tea, deeming it too dangerous to go the path of booze again. She had stopped drinking for good now.

She sank into the hot water with a sigh of delight, pleased at Roland's approving and lustful eyes over her body, but more pleased of his smile as he saw that she was in front of him, full of content at his gentle touch given under her consent. She knew of what he had done in Holy Land – and surely he had some bastards at the present hour – but what he displayed to her was respect and a great deal of affection and if Ide was wary of his crusader self, no matter how alluring it was in a way, he proved himself such a gentle and honest man she couldn't believe him wholly deceitful and horrid.

She gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Well, this was a fruitful day.” she said.

“Really?”

“Why, yes! I cleaned the house, the cabin, harvested a great deal of honey and took care of my winter brew.” her smile grew wider. “I will have plenty to sell.”

“Plenty to drink?” he asked with a hint of mockery.

Ide grew cold. “No.” she seethed, gritty. “Plenty to sell.”

“Come on. Yo know you will drink half of it.” his voice was still echoing with jest. “I know you.”

Ide's eyes grew colder, angrier. “This was a mistake.” she said, standing up, about to leave him alone.

“Ide, wait.” called Roland, grabbing her wrist.

She snapped it out of his hand. “Don't touch me.” her voice quivered under hurt.

“Ide. What did I say that was so wrong? You know it is true.” Roland said.

Ide gritted harder, grew icier. “So what if it is true?!” she yelled. “You arrogant, worthless fool! So what if I drank? Does it give you the right to hurt me? To remind me of my failings and my demons? You don't know why I drank! You don't know it was to forget!” she stood towering over him, mighty in nudity, astonishing him by sound and sight. “Nothing gives you the right to hurt me like you did. I saved your life! I laid with you! I have shared your demons! Why so cruel? Why do you want to hurt me more?”

Roland grew uneasy. “I didn't want to.” he mumbled. “I – I am sorry.” he stammered. “Please, Ide, stay. I don't know what I was thinking.”

Ide rose an eyebrow. “You were not thinking. That is the problem.”

Roland looked ashamed. “I was only jesting. It was a joke.”

“A joke upon one's misery is a poor joke. I know you a better joker, a better man.” she said.

“I am sorry.” he repeated.

Ide shot a glare at him and slowly sank back into the water. “You have no idea how hard it is to try and quit dancing with those demons only to be called what you don't want to be afterwards.” she locked fierce eyes into his. “I won't be merciful the next time. There are limits to kindness.”

Roland nodded. “I did not mean to be insulting. I will never do that mistake again.” he drew her nearer and took her hand in both his. “Besides, I believe I have a pretty good idea of what you mean. There are things I am, things I was, that I hate being remembered of.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I suppose I grew comfortable with you and discarded all judgment. I guessed I could jest and you wouldn't be angry. That is my mistake.” Roland said. “Truth be told, I am with you, far happier than any man.”

Ide relaxed and sank deeper, let him draw her to his chest, let him comb his hair and trail kisses across her neck, his fingertips grazing her hair, his hand pressing her breasts, his cock hard in the water.

He did not urge her to have sex with him for all that, afraid he might break the trust he still had towards him. Being with her in a tub on such a level of intimacy was perhaps the greatest gift of Heaven and he would sacrifice it not even for his own lust – no matter how eager he was for her.

If Ide felt his hard organ, she gave no mention of it, savoring instead her naked body pressed against a hairy chest she could feel was covered with scars. His muscles were sharp, as sharp as when she first saw him and she noted with glee that his emaciated body was no longer and that that of a crusader replaced it. She had healed Roland completely and she had done a damn good job. She knew he would need to leave soon, though and she dreaded that he would do so, for with him, she had been given a glimpse of happiness and the taste had been more enthralling than even the finest mead. She wanted to feel it again. She had grown a joy addict.

Just like her, Roland was afraid their bubbles of perfect bliss would break and he always found new excuses not to leave her. But steel called and it would steer him away, one way or the other. His duties as a knight would call soon, and for this reason he would have to leave. He glanced at the sword nearby and suddenly felt uneasy, almost fretting, looking around frantically in search for an attack. He suppressed a tear and mumbled his creed.

“It was not the effort that made you shake, huh?” inquired Ide, breaking the spell of his fingertips on her head.

Roland gulped and nodded. “No.” he breathed.

She turned to him and gave a face of compassion and smiled a smile that was pained but also comforting. “Bad memories? I thought you were used to wielding a sword by now.”

Roland nodded sadly. “I am. But I must fight for it.”

Ide looked at his eyes, still so haunted. There were wounds deeper than flesh and those she greatly doubted she could mend. Yet, she had seen him happy and carefree once and this Roland slept within the other, only needing a breeze of innocence to give it breath.

“Why is that?” asked Ide.

Roland closed his eyes. “It is complicated.” he said.

“I am used to complicated things. Tell me still.”

Roland closed his eye firmer and breathed, on the edge of some of those panic attacks that shook him. “The crusade.” he spat, tightening his arms around Ide, mastering his breath to his heart-hammering chest. “It takes something from you. It eats it up and you are not the same man who walked into the desert with his soul whole. Seeing it everyday – flesh, ravaged limbs, piles of corpses baking under the sun – the smell,” he shivered. “The smell was worse – foul, acrid, rotten. When wind blew it followed us up to the next battlefield, to the next city we sacked, to the next mass grace we laid.” he sighed. “Whenever I wield the sword, I am reminded of what I saw. It scare me. It scare me to become this monster I was in battle.”

Ide sighed. “You are no monster. Not to me. A man at fault, yes, but a monster, I think not.”

Roland scoffed. “Oh, if only you knew.” he caressed her neck and bit her ear. “If only you knew how despicable, how heinous I am. If only you knew,” he bit her harder. “What I did to survive. If only you knew. I have laid with far more women than any Christian man, became as much a beast on the battlefield and in bed. I am no good man. I am worse than a demon.”

Ide grew fearful. “Don't talk like that.” she said. “You scare me.”

A hint of guilt made him relax and release her. He sighed again and looked at the moon above. “I walked in a human, I returned a demon. I have killed men and the worst part is that I took pleasure in it. I _take_ pleasure in it. It is invigorating having such a power upon someone's life. It made me almost feel like a god. In the desert, among men with similar upbringing and motives, you lose tracks of your own importance and you begin to dream of grandeur. You grow almost insane, mad at fault. I went mad, I confess. But I wish to repent from it, for what I saw was terrible. No one is ever used to walking everyday stared by dead eyes, or used to smell corpses, seeing crows eat flesh, killing, slaughtering or even living in an inferno surrounded by death. No human is born to be inhuman. Rare are the men cruel enough to wallow in it.”

He gave a sharp breath and smiled at Ide when he noticed her concern. He took her hand in his, considered her fingers mechanically playing with them, intertwining his with hers.

“I walked into the crusade with great dreams, with innocence, with a boasting sense of honor. You see, I was a spoiled brat. A spoiled brat is not fit for war. What I saw, I was not prepared to and many of us were not either. Some even killed themselves from fear of what they were about to become.” his heart hammered still but Roland grew calmer, warding off this storm he had kept at bey so often. “The crusade takes something from you that makes you human, compassion, sense of the living, respect for life, knowledge of death – I couldn't name it. It makes death seems so trivial on the moment and then, when it is all over, you suddenly remember and you notice something is missing – that it will never come back. That is when you realize what you have become. That is then, when the crusade hit you. It is not the fight the hardest part. It is the aftermath.”

Ide was fearful, it was true, of what he said; about the inhuman part of himself. She now understood better why he said he danced with the devil. His darkness had been brought upon him with force and he couldn't have fought it, for he wasn't strong enough or wasn't willing enough. He danced and it was his own fault. Roland was a man who had killed, a man who had behaved an animal. Now was the aftermath and his regrets were worth his crimes. If so, she was convinced he couldn't be wholly bad. He could redeem himself.

“Your shakes are from fear.” she said, hiding her own. “Is it not?”

Roland gulped. “Sometimes I believe I cannot fight anymore. Every time I grip the sword and fight I am shaken by panic afterwards, I must look around for threat, not knowing that the only threat that can truly end me is within.” he turned her around to look at her eyes. “Sometimes, I wish I had died in battle or in Hugues' place. A life looking behind my back is no life at all.”

Ide scoffed. “Why would you wish death? You are rich, are higher in status than the whole town and are valued by your family and kings.”

“And you?” he asked, vexed. “Why would you wish death?”

Ide grew melancholic. “There is no point in living if all I feel is an endless void. A life wandering with no purpose is no life at all.” she gave a joyless smile.

Roland's lips parted in a smile. He cupped her head in his hand and drew her closer. “I am glad though. You make it less difficult.” he kissed her nose. “Wielding the sword brings it all back. I am terrified, it is true. But I must muster courage and keep wielding it, for I need to wield it to protect my family, my lands and my king. I shall prevail against it, no matter how afraid I am to relive it all.”

Ide drew back and set her arms around her knees. “You are braver than me.” she said.

“It is not about bravery. It is about finding strength for a step more.” he replied. “It is hard, but necessary.”

Night meowed by the tub, its mouth red with the blood of a mouse he had chased. Ide looked at him and gently stroked his head. “Good cat.” she said. Night meowed again. “No.” Ide said. “You already ate!”

Roland grew uneasy at the blood on the cat's mouth, so red, so raw, conveying fresh meat eaten and blood drank. He shivered. There were things Ide still ignored about his heinous self. If she knew the whole of him, then he would likely lose her for good.

His shakes had stopped but he was still tense in the tub, afraid to let himself wander about a life he could have with her. Too many unspoken things worked against it and he doubted he would ever be happy as to live his dreams. He couldn't. He did not have the right to live it.

“Look!” Ide exclaimed. “He is trying to catch his tail!” she laughed heartily. “He's so dumb! Who's the dumb cat?” she said, scratching Night's ears. “It's you the dumb cat!” Night purred. “My dumb little cute cat.”

Roland watched her pet the cat with a melancholic smile. One way or the other, he would leave and lose this enchanting vision. But now, he savored this moment under the moon and clouds hiding the stars, lit only by the fire nearby. He savored the fresh smell of the water, the ticking sensation of the warmth roaming his limbs, the wind, gently breathing around, Night's purrs and Ide's cooing.

Roland drew her closer into his arms and coiled himself around her, drawing her mouth to his, roaming her with kisses, yielding to his own passion to which Ide replied tasting his lips, setting her fingers into his hair. She traced his scars with her finger and let herself completely go under his caresses. She moaned under his lips, smiled at his lustful groans and felt his heart hammering in his chest. She knew the man she kissed, but she didn't care. She loved him all the same.

Later that night, when both laid in bed and Roland slept, Ide nestled closer and gently rubbed her fingers on his hand, eased by the warmth of their bedsheets. It was so comfortable here, with the smoldering embers of the hearth, Night's gentle breath, Roland's snores and the heat of both their bodies intertwined. Ide closed her eyes, cradled by Roland's breath.

“I wish you will never leave.” she whispered mechanically, dozing off to sleep, hazy in if her confession was a dream or reality, discarding it deep into her mind, almost forgetting it.

Roland suddenly froze beside her, his eyes wide open, his heart hammering, on the brink of a panic attack. His harm had been done. Her words conveyed but one thing and it was love. He had given her hope enough for her to dare confess such a thing. She loved him. This confession brought him as much bliss as it did disarray.

He sheltered her in his arms and couldn't sleep anymore, still haunted by her dreadful words and his own cowardice.

 

He roamed the thought for three days, wondering whether or not he should come clean to her, reveal everything, leave no veil on himself. He wondered if he loved her enough to be rejected by her and wondered if she loved him enough to let him go without anger – rather, if she loved him enough to feel hurt, which would be far more painful for both of them.

He trained still and could walk with his armor on, wield his shield and his sword. He considered himself physically fully healed now. His lease had come to an end and he was stuck at the crossroad of his life, not knowing what path to take. He was lost between duty, love and honor and it only confused him more as to what to do.

He loved Ide and each times his eyes fell on her, he felt at ease. He did not want to leave this cocoon he had lived in for a season. It was home. Leaving home was never easy. But when he considered the manor house, he felt it was home too, and he had been gone from home for too long, finding a new home away.

Roland was astray. If he took a single decision all the others would be lost.

That night, they ate by the hearth. Roland had cooked, as always, and his sword and armor lay near the door. Ide ate her rabbit terrine, her cheese, bread and gruel with delight, not hesitating to put a bit of honey in it to please her taste. Roland smiled each bite she took, happy to see such a smile on her face when he created something. Her smile was good, sun melting snow away. He chased the thought. In the course of action, his love had grown. It was harder, now, to let go.

“Your shakes have become quivers, now.” Ide noted. “I guess it means you feel better about the sword.”

Roland nodded and swallowed his food. “Part of what I confessed were stifling me.” he shrugged. “It feels good to somehow get to get rid of it.” he ripped off some flesh from a rabbit leg and almost choked and gagged.

“You are still hiding something.” Ide said. “I can feel it. You conceal something dark around you and it scares you.”

Roland closed his eyes and discarded his meal. “I do.” he confessed in a breath, his face lit red by the smoldering embers. “It is not that it scares me. It is only part of my fear. I am afraid it might terrify you or anyone else.” he breathed, keeping his tears at bay.

Ide frowned. “What can be so horrible you don't want to voice? What can be more horrible than murders?”

Roland shook his head and drank a large pint of ale, his mouth dripping with red-lit booze. “I can't.” he croaked. “If I tell you, then – nothing will be the same. You will see how monstrous I am.”

“I told you before,” Ide said, reaching for his hand, clasping it. “I do not see you a monster.”

Roland scoffed and snapped his hand out of hers. “If only you knew!”

“Then tell me.” Ide said.

“I can't! I – I can't do that!” he stammered.

“What can be worse than slaughter? Tell me!” she insisted.

“No.” Roland almost choked. “That is – you would be horrified.”

“Tell me!” Ide said again.

“No!”

“Tell me this instant!” Ide raised her voice before she calmed down again. “Roland.” she moved closer. “How am I to understand those demons you danced with if I don't understand what you went through in this stupid crusade of yours?”

Roland shed a tear. “If you knew – I have so much to redeem myself of.”

“No one is perfect.” Ide smiled. “I killed too. It haunts me but I do not see myself a monster for this.” At least, not completely. “I know you can be a good man. I know you. You are a man that can be relied on.”

Roland sighed, capitulating before her will to know more. He readied himself upon spreading his darkness around, upon her fearful eyes and this blossoming love he might as well kill tonight. He twisted his tunic and stirred on his stool, gulping some strong ale to muster courage.

“I killed, it is true.” his mouth was red, glistening with what he drank. “I killed to kill but also to survive.” he gave a heavy sigh and shuddered. “You would be amazed at what can be done for the sake of survival. You would be horrified to what length a man can go in the desert to find food. Sometimes, when we were out of food, we would eat the horses, sheep, goats. But when sheep and horses are not to be found anywhere, there is always something else we have laid behind us.”

Ide shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“I told you before.” he said, his voice grave and eyes dark. “On the battlefield you see them as beasts for slaughter, as less than humans.”

“I don’t understand.” Ide said, dreading every single word of his.

Roland gave a sorry smile, full of sadness, of fear and of shame. “Ide.” he said. “An army does not march on steel.”

Ide gave something between a scoff and a laugh. “No.” she stood up and turned away. “You can't have done it. You can't have fed from them.” he cannot have eaten-

Roland kept silent, his face agreeing in place of his voice.

Ide made a step back, horrified, panting, whispering 'no' on repeat, shaking her head, nearly crying. She bit her lips to conceal her fear. Roland was right. She _was_ horrified. His mouth glisten red in the firelight, red as blood, his teeth yellow and filthy as those of a monster. Even his hair was blood, ever his eyes were blood. At this moment, he resembled one of those demons he said he danced with.

Ide panted. She had laid with him, kissed his lips, felt his tongue. He could have eaten her whole this whole time. What of the food he had served her? All the trust she had had until now for him suddenly cracked and she suspected him to even the most heinous acts.

Roland looked at her, his face distorted in agony at what he saw: fear. It shattered his heart to know she now looked at him that way. “Ide,” he breathed, begged almost. “Please. Don't look at me like that.” his eyes filled with tears.

“How?” Ide breathed. To tell she had been so happy with him before.

“Like a monster.” Roland's voice was shattered, broken by grief.

“You did _that_.” she was afraid to even tell what he did out loud. “What could you have done more?”

Roland lowered his head. “I would never have hurt you. I care too much to hurt you. I-” he stammered between tears. “I care about you. I will never harm you.”

Ide gulped. “I know.” but still, she was afraid, for she finally realized the extent of his darkness, the horror of his crimes and his never overcoming this.

Roland stirred nervously on his seat. One snake had escaped the bag, now was perhaps time for another. He would shatter the affection she might still have towards him and it was reckless, but she needed to know. She needed to stop loving him and all things would be easier. She would no longer feel compelled to look behind her back, afraid he would harm her in any way. Now was the time for truth. Now was the time for Roland to show her the extent of his trust towards her.

Even if it would keep her from loving him. It was a matter of respect now, and Roland was tired of living in a realm of secrets and of lies.

“Ide. There is something else you must know.” he said, hesitant.

Ide frowned, and looked at him, fearful of what he would say, certain that nothing could be worse than his former confession. “What is it?”

Roland sighed. Here went nothing. Here came the moment of truth. “I am betrothed.” he confessed in a breath. “Her name is Constance, a landowner daughter.” he looked at her and desperately wanted to hod her in his arms but restrained, for he deemed he had no right to do so. “I – I – It was before I went in crusade – the ceremony – it had been done before – I – I can't escape it.” he stammered, as to convince himself of the truth of his words.

Ide's face suddenly blanched, hesitating between tears and laughter. Her eyes grew hard and angered, about to spread their fury upon the world. She gave a sudden laugh, half mad, half furious.

“Ide.” Roland said, reaching for her hand.

Ide snapped her hand off him and stepped backwards. “Well aren't you satisfied then!” she yawled. “Deceitful creature! Why your design is complete now! If your former confession weakened what I felt for you, the trust I had in you it has now been reduced to ashes!” she stepped forward, angrier than any storm that had shaken Roland, scarier even to this vision she had given him on night when she looked like a corpse. “You arrogant, stupid, worthless, monstrous, heinous COWARD!” she roared. “Was it so easy, filling my head with hope? Was it so easy confession after confession to strengthen it only to shatter it afterwards? What was your purpose? Destroy me? You hated me so much you made me love you to take it away? Or was it so vile as a test of strength, pulling the bond until it snapped, raising my spirits higher only to watch it fall!” she yelled.

“Ide, I never -” he began.

“Shut up!” she yelled back. “Stop talking!” she cried. “I trusted you! I gave you my hopes! I gave you my strength! You made me believe I had prospects left in a world I don't belong in! I killed for you! I lied for you! I laid awake at night for you! I suffered for you! All you can repay me with is more suffering! You are an asshole!” her voice broke, a heartbreaking crack. “I gave you everything and you took the shreds of hope I had left.” she sobbed. “You killed me.” in her voice, it was a dead sentence.

Roland shook his head, hurt by her words, wanting nothing but her. “Ide, please -” he begged.

“Get out.” said Ide with a lifeless voice.

“Ide.” he pleaded.

“GET OUT!” she roared, pushing him outside, throwing his gear behind him. “Never set a foot in this house again! Never!”

“Ide.” he begged, heartbroken. “I care about y-”

“Tomorrow you will be gone.” she cut him leaving no space for objection. “I will guide you to the path to the town. You will be at ease there, with the likes of you.”

Roland sighed. Her words were final. If he had destroyed her, she had set him on fire and it left him with no company to ease his demons but agony. Both mourned what could have been.

“Tomorrow you will be gone.” she said. “I never want to see your treacherous face again.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROLAND FUCKED UP SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Okay but it is not the end of the story and many things are yet to come and it's gonna be AMAZING! I am also writing a 'sequel' for fun so be ready for that in like 10 years. I must tell you that cannibalism may be a rumor but it may as well be true.  
> Anyway, I hoe you enjoyed this chapter! Stay tuned for more!


	12. The parting of one soul

 

When she led him where she found him in the morrow, her breath had that familiar stench of alcohol and she staggered, not saying a word. It was fresh this morning and he noticed her eyes were red and she had not changed clothes. Roland looked down. She drank again and it was his fault. He noticed how weakly she looked at the path they took and how gritty she was.

He still didn't know why he felt compelled to reveal it all to her; to free himself, maybe, to free herself, in an attempt to destroy something, or maybe to make her hate him and make his leaving easier. Perhaps it was cowardice, perhaps it was bravery, Roland didn't care. What mattered was his doleful heart and how she didn't look at him, the absence of it full of sorrow, of anger and of fear. Even her footsteps reeked disgust.

Roland had shattered it all; shattered her whole. He was the only one to blame for his sorrow and if he had not wept that night, he would have gladly shed a tear.

He loved her still and not reaching for her hand, not combing her hair, not looking at her eyes and restraining to smell her hair was agony.

He hardly slept at all and only the cold helped him stay awake. Her absence by his side had led him to pretend she was there but without her fragrance the illusion had not been so convincing.

She stopped at a crossroad in the middle of the forest. No trace of blood, no bones, nothing was left of the incident that brought Roland into her home. All seemed to have been forgotten as if nothing at all happened there. But Roland knew, and did not want to forget, that it was there his redemption had begun. It was there a love was born and there he would let it die.

“The village is that way.” she nonchalantly pointed a direction. Her voice was dry.

Roland nodded and turned to her, almost desperate for her eyes. “Ide -” he began.

She sniffed and turned away. “Go now.”

Roland sighed. “I am sorry.” he took her hand in his, gently, delicately, and felt her gasp and tense. “Ide, thank you.” he said. “I -” he wanted to say he loved her, he wanted to praise her, but those words, he couldn't utter them. “I hope I will become that man I saw in your eyes.” he said instead.

“You already are.” Ide seethed with wrath and anger. “Now go away.”

Roland suppressed his emotion, not desiring to let her know his heart sank. He brought her hand to his mouth and placed on her palm a gentle cruel kiss full of a heinous devotion.

Under his warm lips, his softness in gentleness, Ide shuddered and bit her lips, concealing her sobs. “Go.” she snapped her hand off his iron hand and, snot and tears running down to her mouth, turned to him, offering him a last vision she saw hurt him. She didn't care. He hurt her, why should she not return the favor?

Roland closed his eyes, resolute in letting her hate him to make it all easier. “Good bye, Ide.” he whispered, turning around. “I will send someone to care for your safety.” he sighed. “I spent with you one of the best summers of my life.”

That said, he walked away in his crusader gear, his shield hanging on his back, without a horse to carry him or any wealth to carry, exhausted, his heart broken by his parting with a woman who gave him so much. He cursed himself, but secretly was glad he would get to keep his word and still be as true as an honorable man.

Ide watched him turn after a tree and disappear towards the end of the forest, concealing any emotion. When he was nowhere to be seen, after a while in which she desperately hoped he would turn around for a last glimpse of her or even better, return to her, apologize or promise her to love her, Ide's heart sank and she fell on the mossy ground with a great deal of sobs and regrets. Had she not cast him out, she would have had more time in his company and perhaps he would have never left. She hated him! She hated how cruelly gentle he was, hated how he gave her dreams only to shatter them. She hated his eyes, his hands, his soft lips, his passionate kisses; she hated his sepulchral voice, his laugh, his breath, his musky scent; she hated how he combed her hair, hated how well he could cook, hated his soft whimpers at night. She hated everything that was his, but cherished it for her own love consuming into anger. She hated him but she still loved him.

She stood up and wandered with no purpose, cutting through patches of white fog hovering over a wet grass, her legs barely bearing her and climbed mountains, sobbing, crying, staggering, scorching her hands, her skin, as branches tore hair off her head mercilessly harming her. But among all this pain, none was more doleful than that of her broken heart and shattered dreams.

She arrived in front of a house overlooking the whole valley, the river, the priory and the town. Samar was there, logs in her arms. She gave Ide a puzzled stare then, agape, saddened without any words said between them, she reached to her and with a quick embrace, guided her inside.

She poured her some tea – not mead. Ide mustn't do mead again - and fed her one of her specialty made of honey and crispy dough.

“Why so mournful, my child?” she asked sitting on a stool by the hearth. “Has anything arisen that caused you pain?”

Ide kept silent, her dry mouth rasping against the dough, her eyes hollow from any joy.

Samar sighed. “I have some news from the village. They are as seldom just like my visits there, but there are. Mahaut is almost ready for her wedding. She has not been hunting for quite a long time now, busy preparing her wedding. I heard her husband will introduce her to his friends of Paris before they set off to London. A family came here from Soisson, tired of the king's taxes and the law there. A girl from the village was forced to become a nun and they sent her to Saint Radegonde's abbey in Poitiers. Say, your nieces and nephews are full of life and Mary confessed she is considering pregnancy next months when her husband's business in Caen would be settled. The priest was attacked by geese. You would have laughed. Mahaut's sisters want to go with her to Paris but I think a young man from Tours offered to marry one of them. He is rich enough. Joseph will be proud. I also have news of...”

“Take me back.” Ide croaked hoarsely. “Take me back when everything was good and when love still lived. Take me back when I was still alive and not a wandering corpse.” her voice was hollow and bitter. Something stirred within her, something dark, something sad, something angry. But she was so sad the energy to be angry was swallowed by grief.

“What happened?” asked Samar.

“My parents died.” Ide muttered. “Then my betrothed died. My prospects died. My children died. My friend will leave me. My sister will leave me. I am alone.” she bit her lips, keeping more tears at bay. “Roland left me.” she breathed, sobbing.

“What?” Samar was flabbergasted.

“He left me.” Ide sobbed, panting. “He is betrothed to another. He – He told me about what he did in Syria – He – He – He is betrothed and made me believe – Oh Samar! He made me believe – He – I loved him! Samar I loved him enough to dream and now he is gone! He has never loved me! He hates me!” she howled. “What a cruel man I loved! What a cruel man I love!”

Samar gently brought her on her chest and stroked her hair, not caring about snot, saliva or tears. “My girl.” she chanted. “My little girl.”

“Samar! I am undone!” she cried. “There is nothing left for me! I am undone and there is no saving the piece of shit I am!”

“You cannot expect others to save you. People are merciless and cruel. You cannot expect a man to save you. You cannot expect your friends to save you. But you can let them help you.” she cupped Ide's face in her hands and gave her a fierce and loving look. “Be your own savior. I will be your guide.”

Ide gave a pleading look and nestled closer in her arms, weeping all she could, cradled by Samar's songs, her words, dozing off to sleep, desperate for this day to end, for all to end, her breath still smelling of ale.

 

Roland stopped, exhausted by the weight of his mail in front of an ancient gate made of stones which he noticed was half crumbled down. The wall around offered poor defense and some parts had collapsed over the years. A bell rang in the village and Roland, with a sharp breath, entered that town so mercilessly unprotected against attacks. He cursed his father for not taking better care of his lands. Truly, for a man who had been so engaged in keeping what was his by the grace of William of England, he did a terrible job at showing himself worthy of it. It was unlike him at the utmost.

He was welcomed with gasps, agape faces and glowers of mistrust. A knight without a horse was an errand and nothing good could come from him. Roland strengthened his grip on the handle of his sword, ready to kill them all if he needed to, while a boulder seemed to have been placed on his chest, pressing it till he could breathe no more.

Roland answered their defiance with dark glares echoing with the rage of a warrior. His eyes themselves sufficed to make some men step back. Those people had hurt Ide and now they cowered in front of the strength of status, military experience, but also the menace of a greater peril to arise. It was a woman with little defense they had insulted, maimed, persecuted and destroyed, but a single man, a knight, errand as he was, was too much for them to bear, even with the men of God behind them.

Roland snarled and spat on the ground. “Cowards. Stupid.” he growled.

This was welcomed with squeals and fears and Roland, with half a smile, went off to the church of the town to ease his pains, to seek shelter in God's embrace. He could almost hear the people whisper with fright about his yellow teeth, about the blood he was covered with, about flesh dangling from his hands, of his mad eyes, his red skin, his red fur, but he shook it off. It was his own demon talking. God would see that their voices would quiet. He followed the sound of the bells, each steps he took less aware of the people's eyes on him.

The church was large enough for the town, it had no transept like those great cathedrals Roland had seen and was made of fair stones from Caen's quarries. The church's front door was higher than Roland and one had to climb a few steps to enter the building. The arch was fashioned according to the old style, with no representation of the saints but rather abstract patterns on the tympanum and zigzags and crosses molded in stone, each arch piled above the other, borne by two round and smooth pillars. The door itself was made of wood and the handle made of iron. Roland noticed fresh paint. They would have painted the front of the church in Summer. With all the priory's money, surely they could afford to keep the paintings even inside of the church.

Chasing his hatred of Ide's persecutors, Roland took in a sharp breath and entered the nave. There were only three chapels behind the altar and the roof was made of wood. He made the sign of cross with Holy Water from the stoup and went to kneel before the cross behind the altar, the whole church colored by stain-glass with blues and reds and purples and pinks and yellows.

He knelt on the cold hard flagstones, gripping his sword handle, his eyes locked on the cross. There were voices outside but prayer came first and some of it were drastically urgent.

“Lord,” he said, his voice barely echoing throughout the church – yet another sign, he thought, that God left the town. “Forgive me for I have lived a life of sin. I have met a woman, Lord, and I can but ask for her safety, her well-being, her health and her happiness. Lord, grant her your bliss, for she is an angel of yours and works miracles.”

For him, there would be nothing but Hell, but for her, he wished Heaven, for he was convinced that under the guise of a witch, she truly had been an angel set on his path to bring light back to him, just as Saul fell and redeemed himself in the eyes of God. He knew what awaited him. He had foresaw it long ago, and now, he would gladly sacrifice his soul for hers and wish her eternity to watch over those who were lost and who needed their pain soothed.

“Lord,” he said again. “I have killed. I have maimed. I have basked in Hell and horror and I ask your forgiveness for what I have done in your name. I realize now that I was at fault and that none of what I did was true to you. I pray, now, that you can find goodwill, not to absolve me of my sins, but to guide me on the path of repentance, of holiness and of redemption. I am sorry for what I did in crusade and I shall from now on follow your teachings of love and compassion for the sake of your flock. I shall be true to my words, now and forever.”

He suddenly quivered and bit his lips, his grip weakening. “I have met an angel, Lord. I pray that you open your flock's sight and let them see her as I do. I pray that you send her those words my mouth, by oath cannot utter. Please, tell her the extent of my affection, make her know my heart's bondage, let her think of me in not bad a manner, let her be with me in spirit. Let me never forget her. Make me remember her smell, her hair, her laugh, her kindness. Let me experience her presence some more, Lord.” he shivered and suddenly relaxed. “Let her love again. Let her have children. Open the way to prospects for her. Help her out of her misery and give her her long overdue happiness, away from the unfairness of your minister's yoke.” he shed a few tears. “I pray that she forgives me my keeping an oath I took in your name. I pray I do not regret that choice as much as I do now. I pray to keep her with me, for parting from her would destroy me. Illuminate my path, oh Lord, just as she did.” Tell her I love her and cannot live without her. “Deliver her from her demons, Lord, and deliver me from mine.”

He put his blade away. “Forgive me for coming into your temple with a weapon, even blessed by a bishop and used in your name upon oaths and honor. I can't live without it anymore without her.” he sighed with sadness. “She drank again. Thinking it is because of me – it is hard. I wish I could make it better. Each step away from her was torture. I can hardly breath. I fear that my guilt will kill me someday. She counts among my greatest regrets, the greatest being this foolish crusade.”

He eased himself on the flagstones. “I am thinking of Samar too. I wish her well and I pray for her long life, for her wisdom and her bliss. I also pray Mahaut finds what she wants, for Ide cares very much about her women.” he briefly touched his lips. “Ide. Keep Ide in your prayers and Martha in your heart. May the Holy Virgin protect them both from evil.”

He gave a bitter smile full of ache. “She must hate me now.”

Footsteps echoed in the Holy temple. Roland started and rushed to his sword. He unsheathed and turned to face a foe behind him, his blood pulsing with the thrill of the fight; only to face the priest, visibly afraid, but also pleased a crusader was in his church – probably eager for some wealth to befall him.

Roland sighed and put back his sword in its sheath, trying to calm his sudden tension.

“My lord, you are in the House of God. Your sword should be outside.” said the priest.

Roland glowered. “I am sure God doesn't mind a blade crafted in His name in His house. Besides, I can never be certain no harm will befall me. Even in a shelter such as this one. Many princes who sought asylum in His house were slaughtered, what does it say about my own safety?”

“Oh but surely no one would have harmed you.” cajoled the priest with a honeyed tone. “You, a crusader, a warrior of God. For you are clearly a knight who has been in Holy Land, ripen with wealth, a horse carrying chests swelling with gold and riches.”

Roland scoffed then laughed heartily, growing bitter and angered. “So this is what it is all about! Money!” he grew cold. “I suffered many attempts to end my days, father, I almost died of it and God chose to save me by the grace of his angel. I have been stripped of my wealth by cowards long gone by now; so don't expect any money from my hand, for I have been stripped of everything.”

The priest grew nervous and impatient. “But surely you have some left, for your hair is finely cut and your beard finely trimmed.”

Roland dangled the pommel of his sword upon him. “Blades are easy to find for a knight.”

The priest gulped. “I understand my lord, but surely you have enough to give the poor.”

Roland glowered. “I have nothing, father. I have absolutely nothing with me but promises to keep and oaths to serve. As for the poor, I see from your silks and brocades that you are yourself well supplied with wealth. Perhaps, in the spirit of Christ and saint Martin you ought to give back to your flocks for their faith and fealty to you. You could ask the monks of the priory. Surely they have enough for the poor.”

“But – But, this cannot be! This is God's by divine right!” he stammered.

“What use could He have of gold and diamonds while all he craves is peace and mercy? If anything, father, I believe Christ would be ashamed of this church.”

“How should you know?” the priest said bitterly. “Did he talk to you?”

“In the forest, he did.”

The priest raised his hands and with great motions gave way to lamentations and fear, begging Heavens to hear them. “Alas, my lord, you would have been mistaken!” he looked at the ceiling as if Christ could hear. “Christ does not dwell there! The devil would have spoken to you if not its servants, those witches! You have been beguiled and misled by some of those sluts worshiping evil and all that is cursed! They sleep with the devil and we cannot get rid of them! Pray, I pray that you would help us, lord, to try them by the grace of God and seek justice for those they did evil to and to seek their just punishment. I pray they know the flames of Hell they bathed into, whoring to the devil.”

Roland's eyes grew dark. Darker than they ever been. “The devil. Really.” his knuckles were white from gripping the sword.

The priest, much agitated kept waving his arms around. “Yes, lord! Why, but with a knight such as you, a warrior of God, we can finally be free of their curse! We shall seize them and try them and send them back from whence they came! It will be a crusade again! It will be glory such as you knew in crusade against heretics!”

Roland tried to keep his anger at bay but at the moment all he wanted was to pin the man against the wall and slaughter him to display the glory he talked about. “You have never been in crusade.” said Roland with contempt. “Do not talk of what you don't know. I have seen no glory there but the devil hiding in each and every one of us. Crusades are not God's design.” he sighed, remembering Ide. “In the forest I have known Christ for the first time and my faith has never been so strong. I will not go against Christ and engage to destroy him once again.” He pushed the priest aside. “Now move. My prayers are done and I have oaths to keep.” he did not want the killing of a priest to add to his crimes.

He stormed out of the church under the 'my lords!” and pleas of the priest but paid it no attention. He was a mad man and if he heard his squeaking insults any more, he would likely kill him of feed him to the wolves.

He noticed that when he walked, amidst fear, gawks and mistrust, many stepped back in respect for the crusader's attire. They knew he was of noble birth, even without a horse to tower over them, proles, but also that he had been brave enough to wander and wage war in foreign lands in which he covered himself with glory by the sides of princes of higher ranks and wealth and gained wealth himself. The attire told everything, but the man concealed everything.

He arrived in front of a forge and noticed a woman with black and curly hair and features vaguely familiar weaving a tapestry, enjoying the sun outside as cold as it was. She was tired and thick dark circled her eyes but she smiled and hummed a song while children Roland believed to be hers roamed the alley with laughter.

“Woman,” Roland said. “Would you be so kind as to give me the direction of this town's inn? I need to visit a friend.”

She rose her head and after a brief second of fright, she gave a warm smile, standing up with effort, her back bent and her hands on her belly. Roland offered her a hand but she politely declined.

“Why, I could not have expected a man of your standing to come at my door.” she confessed.

Her smile. Her smile was familiar, less sad but familiar. Her eyes were too. Her hair was dark, so dark. It reminded him – it reminded him of Ide. Roland concealed a gasp and gave a sharp breath, his eyes filling with tears. This was Ide's sister.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Mary.” she said.

Immediately Roland wanted to let her know about her sister, to tell her to go to her and soothe the pain he had brought. He wanted to let her know he knew her. He wanted to introduce himself to her as a groom would to his bride's family. But Roland was bound elsewhere. There was no introduction to be done. With grief, Roland kept it all at bay.

“Say, you must have come by the forest.” she said with concern.

“Yes.” Roland breathed, Ide's face lingering in his mind.

“My sister lives here.” she said. “Do you have seen her?”

Roland gulped. “I think, perhaps.” he said. “But it was too short and I hardly saw.” he bit his lips. “Perhaps I should have stayed longer.”

Mary tilted her head in confusion. “No need to bother.” she warmly said. “I shall see her soon anyway.” she sat back on her stool. “The inn is that way.” she pointed left of her. “You will arrive to an old cross and you will turn right. Then, it is a straight road.”

Roland gave a hint of a smile and nodded. “Thank you. Peace be with you.”

“So long as my sister is content, I will be at peace.” said Mary.

Roland gulped and cried, as he was on his way to the inn, crushed by guilt. He was cursed, he knew it, for he had been the end and misery of all those he had loved. He wondered if the crusade had been the premise of his.

Finally he arrived to the inn, a long building made of stones, wood and cob. The ground floor was walled while the first floor was walled with wood. Roland deduced it was there Mahaut lived.

When he entered, people gawked and squinted at him. He looked around, looking for Mahaut when a man who strangely looked like her went to greet him.

“My lord.” he slightly bowed. “It is an honor to receive a man such as yourself in our humble house. Would you like something to drink? Something to eat?”

Roland considered his dry mouth. “I sure am thirsty, but I have no money, alas, having been stripped of wealth in an ambush.”

“Ah.” lamented Joseph. “That is vexing indeed.”

“It's on the house!” claimed a voice with strength inside the inn.

“Mahaut!” exclaimed Joseph. “What are you doing here? You cannot be here! Return upstairs.”

“No.” said Mahaut with one of her terrifying smiles. “You don't own me Joseph. I am betrothed and my husband is not here to command me. I will do as I please.”

“Mahaut I swear I -”

“Will do nothing.” she finished for him. “If you don't want me to punch you in the balls and castrate you, you will not command me.”

Joseph sighed. “I never could anyway.” he capitulated.

“What will you drink?” asked Mahaut to Roland.

He ordered some mead and a piece of bread and honey and after Mahaut gave her orders to her brother, they both sat at a table.

“What are you doing here with all your gear?” she asked.

Roland nervously stirred on his seat. “I left.” he confessed.

“You left.” Mahaut’s voice was unforgiving and harsh. She was the accuser and Roland dreaded her wrath.

“I did.” he said. “I left.”

Mahaut stood up suddenly and frothed with rage. “You left her!” she roared. “She loved you. She gave you everything she had from the remains of her life. You left. You deceived her and now she is drowning herself in ale.” she scowled. “Deceitful creature!” she spat. “She loved you!” her hand grazed a knife.

Roland winced in pain, feeling hot tears running to his eyes. She loved him and had been his joy, but he had swore to say the words only to his wife. Even to Hugues, he had never said it.

“Why so cruel?” Mahaut sobbed. “Get out!” she pushed him. “I no longer want to see your face! I no longer allow you to whisper her name at night! Consider her gone from you! Consider her no longer yours! What I wouldn’t give to cut your face for everyone to see how despicable you are!” venom filled her every words.

“I am betrothed, Mahaut. I cannot undo an oath I have taken before I even met her.” his tone was calm but hid a violent storm.

Mahaut cried and she did not care. “She should have never met you then. She would be better off without you! You hurt her! You are just like the others; a swine who should not be here!” she had spoken fiercely and bent to Roland, still towering over him. “What? You wanted to dishonor her? You wanted to shame her? To fill her head with dreams and hopes only for the pleasure of shattering her? You wanted to see her cry and drink? You wanted her to be miserable? Congratulations! Your design is done and so complete!” she gritted, menacing in anger.

He growled and his eyes filled with a wrathful ire that startled the huntress. “Never.” he said. “Don’t assume,” he roared, throwing the table away in anger. “That my heart does not bleed from it! Do not assume I do not suffer from it! What would you have me to do?!”

Mahaut yielded to her tears. “You should have known better. You should have died and then she would have never known you.”

Roland gave a bitter laugh. “Between you or me, who is the cruelest? The friend who wishes her to be just as miserable as before she killed for me, or me, who left her, a fine woman who shed blood for my safety, after having showed her hope?” Mahaut lowered her eyes and snarled. “Do not pretend you are better than me. You are just as cruel and you shall leave soon.”

“I thought you would have taken her far away from here.” she croaked.

I would. “I guess we cannot have everything we would want to have then.” he bitterly spat.

“What is the commotion here?” asked Joseph, visibly uneasy by their shouts and their feral stance. “My lord, your mead and bread.” he placed a pint and a loaf on the table. “Now, you,” he said to Mahaut with menace. “You will go upstairs right now or you -”

“Don't bother.” Roland said with ire. “I was on my way to the manor.” he stood up and drank up his mead, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “This mead is piss. I will not pay for it.”

“It has been brewed by men of God.” Joseph stammered.

“Pity they forsook prayer and decided they were brewer.” Roland scoffed, his deep voice only a growl.

He stormed out of the inn under Mahaut's insults and Joseph's laments, happy for one to leave this town, its stench of piss and darkness, its mud, its shit, its foul smell and foul souls, its anger and hatred. This town was gray and poor almost to excess. It was a relief Ide left it.

Mahaut's words still echoed in his ears and so cruel was he that he cherished Ide some more, eager to go back to her, make amend and bring her where the sun shone and where cities were luminous.

Roland had been cast out thrice; cast out of Ide's house, of Mahaut's inn and of the town itself, while the priest and his flocks yearned to keep him in. He shook his head. Perhaps they were in the wrong then, for if women as wise as Ide and Mahaut put him out, it was because they knew how dark the town was and although they hated him, he was trustful enough to believe they unconsciously sent him to better places.

He had basked in the people's fear, of their mistrust and hatred. It was the same as a group of famished madmen. One would kill the other without remorses or any hesitation. They would eat themselves whole until none remained but bones, ashes and blood. The town had been built on blood-soaked ground and its inhabitants festered, stifled by their neighbor. There was nothing good there. Ide was right. He should have stayed in the forest.

He hated that town. He hated what they did to Ide. He hated that they would not care about her. He hated their so called holiness. He hated their mindset, their vernacular, the atmosphere. He hated their gawks and gasps. He hated them all, fools, reveling into their own sins as if they had known none. He hated them thinking him a saint while he was a demon. He hated their praises when Ide deserved it all. He hated that he should cross it away from her; away from his heart he had put in her good care. He hated being so far from her, not being able to relish her self. He hated that she hated him. He hated his burning love, scorching his very soul.

All he could think walking the road amidst scattered farms and fields was Ide. Nothing broke the spell of her in his mind until rumbles of hooves thumping the ground started him and he gripped the handle of his sword, about to unsheathe it.

“Roland!” Stephen exclaimed and Roland relaxed.

He dismounted as his horse was about to stop and ran to his friend. He welcomed him with a warm embrace, shaking him and staring at him with the happiest of smiles.

“You have not changed at all.” he joyfully said. “Perhaps a bit more muscular and slightly taller, that's all.”

“Ah, but I have scars now.” Roland jested.

Stephen brushed off the remark with his hand. “You were ugly before that, don't worry.”

Both men roared with laughter and walked together towards the manor, passing by fortified farms. The forest was rare there and it seemed there was no trace of it for acres of land.

“I went to the priory today. Some business requested my presence. The monks are – well, there has been a feud between them and your family about a few acres of land.” he looked Roland up and down and squinted. “I saw you at the priory a few months ago.” he gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, I thought I saw you but I woke up amidst the monks of the priory with a headache and I had forgotten about this until about a month ago.” he narrowed his eyes a bit more. “Was it really you?”

Roland lowered his eyes, measuring whether or not it was wise to confess the whole truth to his friend. He pondered if he trusted him well enough with Ide's safety. “Yes.” he said, trusting Stephen even if it frightened him. “It was me. I put you in care of the monks.”

Stephen looked hurt for a brief moment but gave space for confusion. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you hit me and left me for dead.”

Roland rolled his eyes. “First; I knew you weren't dead because I checked your pulse and knew from experience that such a blow would not have killed you. Second; I did not knock you out. My savior did. She was afraid for her safety and I for hers. I left you to the monks because I knew she would not have let me take you at her house and also because I knew they would take care of you. I only left after I knew you would be fine.”

“I could have died.” Stephen said, faking a sad voice.

Roland laughed and bumped his shoulder against his. “Stop it! You only forgot you saw me. You are fine.”

Stephen gave a smile and turned his head back. “Your savior, huh? Would you hear that! Who was she your savior? Where could you have found such a benevolent creature?”

“She picked me up in the woods where I was left for dead after an ambush.” Roland said.

“In the forest? After an ambush? Left for dead?” Stephen's voice grew high-pitched. It always did when he showed disbelief. “Well for a dead man you are looking quite alive and quite well, my friend.”

“That is because she healed me for months.” he smiled. “She is a great woman. She heals and brew. But she has been having trouble with the townsfolk and the monks ever since the plague – or so I think – and if we ran away, it was only for her terror of them.” his smile grew wider. “Being with her I almost forgot the crusade. She made me happy.” he grew grim. “And now she hates me.”

“In the woods.” Stephen squinted at him. “A woman really saved you in the woods? Have you not been mistaken for witches? Those demons are usually the dwellers of this realm.”

Roland gritted and concealed his anger. “No. She saved me.” he turned to his friend and looked at him with all the strength of his conviction. “I know Christ. I know demons and devils. The crusade opened my eyes to everything and I have never been blind ever since – full of mistrust, yes. But blind, I think not.” his heart swelled with pride. “She was an envoy of God on my path and saved me when she did not have to. I have never found so holy a woman. I will not bear to hear otherwise. Even from a friend.”

Stephen nodded in acknowledgment. “If such is your decision.” he sighed. “You have grown wise, my friend. Wiser, perhaps, than when you left.”

Roland shrugged, his back aching from his mail. “What can I say? A crusade open one's mind. I have seen and known too many things to be oblivious anymore.”

“Hop on my horse.” Stephen offered. “You are exhausted.”

Roland accepted and took great relief in letting Stephen's horse carry him home. It wasn't as high a horse as those of the Saracens which he had been given a few, including one that carried him from Syria to Normandy, but still, it felt good being on horseback again.

“I married Rosamund.” said Stephen.

Roland gave a gasp, his eyes wide opened. “Really?” he sounded surprised and happy. “You finally settled for a dowry with her father? So this mean you are done courting each other? Well that is a relief! I shall no longer hear your lamenting not being able to be with her.”

Stephen laughed. “Yes. She makes me very happy!” he pointed to a large building near the crumbling walls of the manor Roland could make out in the distance. “We live there. With our three children.” he added with a smirk.

Roland scoffed. “Children! Why, I hope they will not inherit your father's lack of hair!Children! You, a father! Time sure has passed since I've left! I feel almost regretful not having been there for their christening.” he gave a warm smile. “I am not surprised, though. I have always known you would one day settle and found a happy little family.”

Stephen blushed and stroked his black beard. “Rosamund is happy I think. She is closer to her cousin, now.”

“Constance.” Roland sighed with bitterness. “Yes, I suppose Rosamund is glad she is not alone and have a kinswoman to talk to.”

Stephen bit his lip, hesitant to bring Roland some news he knew would sadden him. Roland had changed, he felt it; he was more prone to anger, wiser, perhaps, but unstable with emotions. He had become unpredictable and Stephen feared that.

“What are your children's name?” asked Roland.

“My two sons are William and Richard and my daughter is Odila. Rosamund expects a fourth child. I hope it is a boy but she longs for an other daughter.” he said, glad to change subject. “I want you to be the godfather of this child.” he confessed. “I ran out of brothers and friends for them. Your sisters are gone now and my children cannot see their godmothers anymore, except for Odila. Constance, at least, has not left.” he grew nervous again and Roland squinted at him with concern. “I need to find a new godmother though.”

Roland thought about Ide. She would make a good godmother. But he shook it off. She did not believe and even so, he couldn't marry her, being betrothed to Constance.

“My father has let his domain fall into ruins I see. I cannot count all the churches I have seen burnt, the villages reeking misery, the fields lacking men and oxes to plow. I have never met so fearful and mad a people. Compared to this, the poorest town of Syria resembles Constantinople.”

Stephen looked down, saddened, mournful even. “Ah yes. I suppose being away for so long a time changed perspective.” he frowned. “About your father – it is weird – why have you come if not - Roland haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?” Roland asked. “Stephen, has something arose?”

“Roland, we sent you a messenger more than a year ago.”

“I have met none.”

Stephen gave a sharp breath. “That is impossible.” he whispered. “Unless – Roland, your father is dead.” he said with gravity.

Roland suddenly felt himself dizzy. “What? No, it can't be. Then... I sent a man to inform my father of my arrival. He would have come back and tell me the news.” he suddenly felt a wave of panic, as if his chest was crushed by a boulder. He panted and although he tried to recreate Ide's presence beside him, he could hardly breathe.

“We haven't met any messenger of yours.” Stephen said. “Your father died and your mother went to find your sisters for some comfort.”

“And Godfrey?” asked Roland.

“He is the master now. He is the baron.” He stroked his beard again. “That is strange though, that no messenger came to you and none to us. I shall see that an explanation is found about it.”

They reached the manor's village and passed a chapel.

“Well.” Roland breathed. “I am quite amazed that his death had not been mentioned to me. In any case, I think I shall soon visit his grave. I must also congratulate my brother of his new position and send word to my mother about my return, so short is it.”

They entered the low wall circling the manor; a tall building of two floors made of stone flanked by a granary, barns and stables, towering over the village on the old mote-and-bailey castle. A few houses had been built inside the walls to shelter the retainers. A pantry had been added and in place of the old farm Roland and Godfrey used to play in, a large building made of stone was being brought up; a building large enough for ten of Ide's house to fit. There, behind the manor, it was all a chaos of pulleys, treadwheels and hoists and a symphony of clattering steels, shouts and screams, rattles of men dragging stones and clangs and bangs of those being carved to fit a wall, to be magnified in columns, turning marble under expert hands.

It was a spectacle of sweat, of dust and of stones and although the work had begun long ago, it was the work of a lifetime and would not be achieved before a few years.

“Why would your return be short?” asked Stephen. “Do you not intend to stay?”

Roland glanced at his sword. “No. I have taken an oath to protect the king of Jerusalem and his kingdom. I intend to keep it.” he said. “Not to mention he gave me acres of land to rule and troops to command. I need to come back to my domain as soon as possible.”

“Then why did you left it if you did not know your father died?” asked Stephen.

“I have oaths to keep here too.” Roland gave a bitter smile. “I came here to marry Constance and bring her with me to her new home.”

Stephen nervously squirted. “Roland...” he said as his friend dismounted. “About that... There is something else you must know.”

Roland frowned and was about to respond when a tall beautiful woman got out of the manor, her long fair hair braided in two plaits reaching her hips, her rich bliaut reaching the ground as well as her sleeves. Her hair was crowned with a circlet of silver maintaining a veil on her head. The fabric of her gown and overdress were made of fine silk and linen and were embroidered with delicate purple threads and lined with fur. A fine belt was tied around her waist from which a purse hanged. Two toddlers clung and tugged at her dress and she gently placed her hands – adorned with gold and jewels – on their head in a protective stance judging by Roland's attire that he was a soldier.

“Roland?” she asked in shock, almost fear. “Impossible!”

Roland narrowed his eyes further and his eyes grew dark. The toddlers, the veil. She had the attire of the married woman and those rings he saw on her fingers were not helping. A stone suddenly dropped on his stomach as anger came, raging and boiling, contained in cold eyes and white clenched fists. He gripped the pommel of his sword, fighting the urge of killing everyone around.

She was married. He was free from his oath through her betrayal. She was married and had not informed him of her treachery, her odious deceit. She was married and had children and if Roland did not know yet who was the father and husband, he yearned to inflict his vengeance against them. She was married. His heart suddenly dropped dead. He could have married Ide.

Stephen placed a hand on Roland's back. “Here was what I wanted to tell you.” he said. “Your brother married her about a year after you left.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been SUCH A LONG TIME! For some reason, with my being back at uni I have gone through a period of un-inspiration. But I recently decided to write again because I need to give my two dorks some closure I still heavily doubt my writing skills and I am still struggling with self-confidence, but heh. Tis a first draft and I'll make it better after it is finished.  
> Anywhoo I hope you enjoyed this chapter (I am reaaaaally trying to describe the characters and the decor the best I can) and I hope you are glad to read about Stephen again. Let me know what you think.


	13. Of daggers and stones

 

Roland could hardly contain his rage. Constance stepped forward in the courtyard and with grace, she bowed to him, her eyes cold and full of contempt. She kissed his hand and stood up, regal in allure and behavior.

“My lord.” she said. “What a delight that you come back to us. Alive, what's more.”

“Did you wish me dead?” asked Roland as coldly as he could.

Constance gave a smile, a cold one. “Not the least.” she calmly said. “Your brother and I have been mourning you for an eternity it seemed, for you would not give us news and we had none to satisfy our grief. Instead, we were compelled to trust what we heard and we heard words that you have been slain in battle during an ambush.”

Roland stiffened. “It has been the fate of many, but I survived, my lady.” his voice was cold as ice. He violently withdrew his hand from hers, not caring whether or not she bled, consumed by his own anger.

Constance was beautiful as ever she was. Her complexion was of a soft pink alabaster, her eyes were fairer if ever possible, her straight nose held itself with grace on her face and her lips were full, each of her features on a respectable distance from the other, seemingly placed here and there following strict rules of grace and beauty. No signs of wrinkles, no signs of fatigue, no signs of sadness. Her beauty was carved on a cold marble, destined to keep its perfection so long as men would see.

Roland sneered, suddenly appalled by her perfection. He hated it, this coldness, this beauty. She was too perfect to be true and instead, Roland found her odious staring at her for too long. He couldn't linger over flaws, wrinkles, folds of skins and marks bearing a story. A second of a sight and all was told. He found her plain and bitterly realized he had idealized her.

Roland stepped back and took his shield, his sword and readied himself to return to Ide – that was, if she still wanted him. He was to be accounted for her pains but he hoped he could soothe them, for he was in dire need of her presence, not being able to recreate this peaceful perfection.

“Where are you going?” asked Stephen, confused.

“Nothing keeps me here.” said Roland as he was about to leave. “Give my brother my regards.” he snarled at Constance “And my congratulations.”

Hooves thundering on the ground stopped Roland in the middle of his move and he turned just in time to witness his brother storming through the gates followed by retainers and hounds. Roland recognized some men to be long friends of Godfrey and some hounds as being puppies he once played with and trained. He would almost felt nostalgic if anger did not trump it all.

Godfrey quickly dismounted widely smiling, and servants came to tend his horse. His retainers did likewise and carried a boar and a few rabbits from their own horses to the pantry. Godfrey removed his leather gloves, not caring to look around him in spite of Constance's hawking. His hair reached his shoulder and was of a fair blond, his face was comely and his skin white. Godfrey was lean and built for hunting. He wore a rich tunic that reached his calf, which was fitted with a leather belt on which was tied a purse, a cape wrapped around his shoulders, flapping against his leather hunting boots.

“Well my dear, this was quite a hunt!” he exclaimed with joy. “Bertram found me a good boar and we managed to get some rabbits. Shall we send words to the pantry for...” he suddenly stopped and blanched as he noticed Roland. “Roland.”

Roland glowered, gritting, his lips twitched into a thin hard line. He nodded as a greeting, his hands gripping the pommel of his sword.

Godfrey's joyful demeanor collapsed and he suddenly frantically looked around – in search, perhaps of someone to defend him if ever needed. Roland scoffed. His brother had never been the kind to fight. His thing was to hunt animals. Roland's was to hunt men.

His tall and lean brother, seeing that no one was to come help him, played a honeyed smile as he stepped beside Constance, giving Stephen a knowing look.

Stephen hardened and straightened his back next to Roland, frowning and judgmental and Roland thanked him for it.

“Brother!” Godfrey cried as he took Roland in a cold embrace. “What a joy! Thank God!” he said, his silks rubbing Roland's steel. “Thank God!” he patted his shoulder, his tongue as fierce as a sword. “We thought you dead.”

“You thought wrong.” his voice was harsh as steel.

“Why, God must have saved you in crusade. Praised be He be! To see you return to us safe and sound brings us much joy.” Constance stepped forward and bore her head high. “Ah.” he faked embarrassment. “I assume you know my wife.”

“I assume you know my former betrothed.” Roland replied and Stephen quietly smiled.

“Well, yes.” Godfrey rubbed his beard. “You have been gone for so long and not a year after the ceremony, her father decided to – well – he wanted her to marry fast so I – you were gone and I thought it would benefit us both. Besides, we heard words of killings and slaughters, of men killed in crusade. A merchant from Paris told us many things about that. His son, I think – or nephew, I forgot – was a crusader and told him many things.” he wrapped his arm around Constance's waist. “Well, I suppose you must have loved many women in Syria. You shall tell us tonight. I am sure Constance don't mind, now that you are – well, you know what I mean.” he stammered as Constance gave an amused smile.

“Tonight?” asked Roland. “I don't plan on staying tonight.”

“Come come brother, you must stay.” Godfrey insisted. “At least tonight and tomorrow if you wish to. You must gather strength if you are to return from whence you came. I'll give you a horse – no. No need to pay me, it is my pleasure. Come now, I haven't seen you in such a long time and I have many things to tell you. Mother would blame me for ever if I let you leave without news to return to her. I must also give your account to our sisters. And father, ah father,” he lamented. “Father is...”

“... dead. I know.”

Godfrey fidgeted around, hardly keeping his calm. He glared at Stephen and looked again at his brother with toady eyes. “We mourned him. We couldn't reach you, alas.”

Roland's eyes grew darker.

“Come, let us feast and rejoice of your glorious return.” he gauged his rags and lack of wealth. “Let us mourn our father together. Let you strengthen and then, after a day or so I shall let you go as you please.”

Roland considered his anger, his exhaustion and the good a bath would do him as well as a feast and some nights in a soft bed. He considered the urge to go back to Ide, to sleep in her bed, how rough it was, to delve and bask into her presence. He considered night about to fall and the long road ahead to regain the forest. It was too late now to travel again and he doubted she would let him pass the threshold.

With a look to Stephen, Roland nodded. “Very well then.” he said. “Stephen will feast with us, I trust.”

“Wonderful!” Godfrey clapped his hands. “I will see that everything be ready tonight. We will only be few but that shall be enough for the boar at least. Stephen, bring Rosamund with you. The more the merrier.”

He walked away and gave his servants and retainers orders to cook and prepare the feast and lead Roland to his old bedchamber as well. Stephen pressed his shoulder and mounted his horse away with a last look that told his eagerness to come back and watch over Roland, the whole affair being far too intriguing for him to let go.

With haughty eyes, Constance stared at Roland before she turned away to follow her husband, leaving Roland alone in the yard facing the manor. He sighed and headed for the pantry, where, he had long been aware, led to his former bedchamber.

It was on the first floor, a small room with one window and old dusty tapestries hanging on the walls, wooden swords scattered around and old chests bearing clothes that did not fit. The reeds covering the floor had not been moved or changed for a long time but Roland shrugged it off. It was as good as it could be.

Servants came and went to prepare a tub, prepare his bed, dust the room off, bring wine, change tapestries, bring him clothes and even wash him. Roland writhed under their hands and asked to be left alone, keeping with him only a maiden to remove his gear.

He sent her off before he was naked and dipped into the hot water while fire crackled in his chimney. He almost forgot it, the soothing flicker of candlelight, the calm of a room stifled from cold, wind and sound by thick tapestries covering the naked stones of the walls; the comfort. the sheer comfort of being home, of being warm.

He sighed and gazed in the distance. He wondered what she was doing. He wondered if she would accept coming with him to his lands, to his caravansary, his house and the castle he planned on building there. His room was larger thither, more luminous, more everything; but it lacked only someone to admire the landscape with him. He eagerly planned on leaving in the morrow or whensoever to take her away from this cursed land, to a gentler realm.

The base floor was a large hall with a large chimney overlooked by a corridor upstairs leading to the bed chambers joined by a massive stairway. Tapestries hung on the walls telling of the story of their grandfather who joined William of Normandy from the conquest of his duchy to that of England, of their mother's life, of their father's deeds, of monsters and knights, of valiant men and damsels. Large tables had been set for the feast and reeds on the stone floor had been changed. A pleasing aroma of cooking and baking filled the air around as guests started to swarm through the door, a few of them being playmates of old, the others being Stephen and his wife.

Roland adjusted his ring on his finger. He lost the use of fine clothes and without the weight of his armor, he felt quite naked, although his sword remained tied to his belt, no matter how insulting to Godfrey. That sword gave him peace, however blood-soaked its blade.

For the occasion, he wore a long red tunic lined with fur and adorned with embroideries. His legs were kept prisoner by tight cream-colored hoses and his waist by a belt. He wanted to add a few more rings but cursed himself thinking they might have been stolen when he was ambushed.

His long sleeves dragged on the guardrail as he walked down the stairs to greet Stephen for the second time in this long day.

“You look fine.” Stephen said. “I was afraid so long a time among barbarians might have turned you into a beast.”

Roland gave a sour laugh. “I miss my gear.” he confessed.

Godfrey came down the stairs Constance beside him, both wearing rich fabrics and bliauts reaching the floor. Roland frowned.

After their greeting their guests, all sat on benches, told the graces and chatted as servants poured them wine and ale. Roland refused ale thrice, deeming it far from Ide's, not willing to torture himself thinking he could be with her. Drinking something else than her brew would be an insult.

He would soon be reunited with her anyway. He already pictured himself, cowering in front of her, begging for her to take him back. This was a humiliation he was willing to go through if it meant sanity.

“My brother is very rich, I presume, having such clothes and feasting like a king.” Roland noted on his side of the table. Godfrey was surrounded by his most trusted retainers and was busy talking with them. “Let alone that keep he is building. Has the manor grown derelict? Godfrey was born when it was still being brought up.”

Stephen's mouth was a thin line. He disapproved but couldn't voice anything, for oath of fealty.

“Tell me,” Roland asked. “Where does he find the money if his lands are being ravaged and his serfs turned paupers? Tell me he rose no taxes, took nothing for his own gain while his people are dying.”

“He is the baron.” Stephen sighed. “Wouldn't you do the same if you had his power?”

“I have his power and more.” Roland said. “As for my people, I shall try and be fair. Even my Muslim people. If they refuse conversion I will not argue and I will let them believe what they want however wrong I think they are.”

“The Pope will not be pleased with it.” Stephen noted.

“The Church doesn't have to know everything. I answer to the king of Jerusalem only.”

“What of the other counties?” asked Stephen. “I heard Holy Land had been divided in independent morsels.”

“It was true before Baldwin took the crown. Before Godfrey died.” Roland gave a sad sigh. “Anyway, I need to come back there soon.” he toyed with a table-knife. “It was a mistake to come back here without armed troops. If my men had come with me I trust that I wouldn't have been attacked.”

“Do you know who attacked you?” Stephen asked, eager to punish the culprits.

“Men. I killed a few in the ambush, but three remained and they looked for me for quite a time until I killed them.” He stroked his beard. “They were much too eager to find and end me. All of this makes me think someone ordered my death.”

Stephen shivered. “That is frightening, indeed. I shall see that the whole affair be examined.” his tense mouth spread into a smile. “Now with this healer of yours. Was she tolerable enough for your exquisite taste? You have always wooed and laid with the prettiest girls around.”

Roland grew tense and irritated. To hear Stephen talk about her in such a fashion, as if she was a piece of meat, worse, as if he disregarded her, was as doleful as his own guilt.

“She was plain.” he said. “But oh, so charming and enthralling. Her hair... I shall never forget her hair... Her eyes... Her bravery, her sadness, her compassion, her smile, her joy, her.” his mouth widened to a toothy grin. “I dwelt in the curves of her hips, in her ebony mane, I drowned in her icy eyes and let her sing wonders that made me warm. She was a haven in the desert, a fresh rose in winter. Oh Stephen, she was everything for a fleeting moment.” he touched his lips. “I loved her.” he whispered. “I love her.” he said, loud enough for only Stephen to hear.

“That much, huh?” Stephen grinned. “You have changed since the crusade indeed. Have you laid with her?”

“You know I did.” Roland smiled. “But at first I mistrusted her. I only laid with her because she was willing.”

“Have you laid with many women in crusade?”

“Some, yes.” Roland said, not foolish enough to mention Hugues. “But it was not always pleasing. We were beasts back there. It was..”

Godfrey stood up as large plates of glistening food entered the room, carried by servants. “My lords, my ladies.” he bowed to Constance who was chatting with Rosamund. “We are gathered here on this merry occasion to celebrate my brother, Roland's return from crusade safe and sound. Praised he be for fighting in the name of our Lord, for the Glory of our Pope, to reclaim what was ours from the Saracens! Praise him, praise him, for he is valorous indeed. No Saracen blade cut him! Praise him, for he made his forefathers proud.” his beaming smile vanished and he played a mournful face amidst the crowd that applauded Roland a moment before. “The occasion is not so merry, for Roland learned today of our father's death, but I need to add to his pain that of our cousins' death in England, warring for the late king William the second against the treacherous count of Maine. May we mourn them, and praise their bravery, adding to the glory of our blood. Let us pray for their souls.”

A few mumbled some prayers but Roland was aghast to hear that his cousins had die, leaving Godfrey the only heir to their uncle, their cousin, Adela having chosen a convent for her dwelling. All of their uncle's children had died, then, most as infants, others at war.

The prayer done, chats resumed with greater intensity, as if the sorrow of then had been just a dream. Roland noticed Godfrey whispering something to a retainer with seriousness from the corner of his eyes but paid it no mind. His brother might have been planning a new hunting party. After all, he did like his hunting parties.

“What were you saying about the crusade?” asked Stephen as Rosamund gave him a glance full of a longing Roland wished he would see again in Ide's eyes.

Roland sighed and drank up his wine, shuddering. “That we were beasts if I recall.” he grew shameful and stern. “I recall. We _were_ beasts. Have you ever wondered what we look like under all this flesh? I know it. Bones and guts have the same color all around the world. It is only the outside that is different. I have seen severed limbs still grasping swords, I have seen severed heads widely looking around after a few seconds, I know exactly the length of our guts and how much to take off for a man to die or confess. I know the amount of blood one can lose before he passes out. I know how to kill, how to maim, how to rape. I don't know how many I killed, but I know I killed and I killed well. I know the thrill of battle, the stakes... I know what it is to see comrades fall. I know grief, I guess, but also how to escape it. I have seen men descend to madness in the desert to the point they ate themselves. No training can prepare you to that. No war has ever been as chaotically barbaric as this crusade.”

“That much?” Stephen breathed, grimly reckoning the meat around.

“Oh yes.” Roland said, shuddering from boasting, keeping his darkest deed under secrecy. “My sword can testify. If you look at it closely, you will see that blood still lingers on the metal; blood from Saracens, but also blood of those who attacked me.” he sighed. “My savior killed one of them. She felt incredibly guilty and it still haunts her at night, but it was a necessity. It's that way with killing and slaughters. They are but bags of flesh to you, but once ridden of their incarnations, they come back as ghosts to remind you they lived.” he bit a piece of glistening rabbit roasted in herbs. “It is that, the greatest aftermath: guilt.”

Stephen gulped a piece of roasted boar cooked with berries and mead. “She killed for you? Has she been punished? Roland, this woman is a witch and you told me she killed. She should be tried.” always so uptight about laws.

Roland's grip strengthened on his knife. “You will do nothing of the sort.” he growled. “She killed but one man in her life and saved many more. Why should she be held accountable and not I who slaughtered more men than any woman would have? Leave her alone. I do not want to hurt you.”

“The law...” Stephen winced.

“What law?” said Roland brutally. “I know no law and she is to come with me to my lands! My laws will apply to her and I say she is innocent!”

Stephen turned his hands to the ceiling. “God will be the judge of it.”

“So be it.” knowing very well that God was on her side.

“The crusade truly changed you.” Stephen muttered. “Who knew you could be righteous?”

“We are full of surprises.” Roland said. “A thing such as a crusade can only enlighten oneself, whether well or bad.”

“How are your lands there?”

Roland smiled. “Wide.” he said. “I own a few hundred families, a few caravansaries, fields and parcels of desert. That isn't much but it satisfies me.” his anger grew dim. “I wish you to come there and be my retainer, to enforce laws there and to administrate it when I am away with my troops, warring for my king.”

“We shall see.” Stephen said. “I do enjoy my status here and Rosamund is far too pregnant to undertake such a journey. I am afraid it will be bad for the child's health. Give us time. I shall talk to her and we shall see what to do. For now let us feast and let me spend some time with you my friend. It has been so long.” he drank some ale. “Tell me, then, I need to know: is the journey easy to your lands?”

Roland grew grim. “I heard my father tell of heavy seas and storms striking ships when I was younger. All of it tales heard from my grandfather. When he set sail to England on a ship he commanded in king William’s fleet, he saw several vessels sink into the abyss, towards a goddess sailors coming from the north called to bring themselves fear.” he said, drinking his wine. “I never truly understood the terror of it, the sheer paralyzing fear of drowning, of facing monsters of dark water until I set sail for Acres. We made it alive I still wonder how.” he gave Stephen a grin, amused at his sudden fear. “But it was bad weather that day. When in company of great mariners, there is nothing to fear at all.”

Stephen laughed. “Always the jester!”

The throng ate and ate and drank and drank, biting into roasted rabbits, and boar, tasting gruel and carrots and marrows and leeks and rice and spices and bread and all sorts of delicacies familiar to Roland's palate. Their thirst quenched and their stomachs aching from good food, minstrels launched into a new tune fit for dance.

Rosamund rose from her seat, the swelling of her belly telling of five months of pregnancy, and set herself beside Stephen, both reaching for their hands. Her hair was as fair as her cousin's and braided under her veil and had the same complexion but was fatter than her. Her face was covered with freckles and her eyes sank at the outer corner so that she looked sad. She had a calm and graceful demeanor with a kindness attached to it that always relaxed the people near her. Rosamund was a happy woman and her face sang it with a charm Roland had found in Ide. She wasn't a beauty carved in marble, she was a woman for bed and for love. Stephen had good taste.

“I am sorry, Roland, to strip you of so good a company,” Stephen pressed her hand with affection, devotion even. “But I wish my husband will dance with me before I am too fat to do anything.” her voice rang with laughter and love.

“You will never be too fat.” Stephen voiced, outraged.

“Flatterer.” she laughed.

Stephen kissed her hand. “Well, what the wife commands, the husband does.” he smiled and Roland had never seen him this blissful. “I'll come back.” he mouthed.

Roland laughed as the two of them walked away – or rather danced away – joining other guests to bask in celebration, following the tune of the minstrels. Roland envied them. He wished he was as carefree as them, but the boulder cutting his breath was hard to set away.

Godfrey came to sit beside him. “I trust this feast is fitting your fancy.” he said. “Oh it is not like those you must have been in Holy Land, but I can never be too modest to deem it not right by you.”

Roland sipped more wine. It felt good and soothing and he understood why Ide drank so much. “It is a magnificent feast Godfrey. It is too much for me and I want you to know that my feasts were not this joyful. We usually washed the blood off our clothes. That was the closest to feasts us, soldiers could ever dream of. Hopefully I'll see plenty more.”

Godfrey played a sly smile, masking his second of fear to know his brother so accustomed with carnage. “It pleases me to know you came back.” he wrapped his arm around Roland's shoulder.

Roland squinted at his hand and frowned, anger rising. “It is good to be back.” Roland coldly said. “But I must admit I am quite taken aback by your taking my bride.”

Godfrey played a saddened sigh. “I told you; you were away and we thought you dead. It seemed the only option to keep Constance safe.”

Roland groaned and drank more. “What of mother and our sisters?” he asked as to change subject.

“Mother is visiting relatives in England and she will come back soon. We all thought you dead, you know. We mourned you. I trust that she will be happy to know you alive and I shall see that a message is sent to tell her the good news.” Godfrey smiled. “As for our sisters, they seem very happy and Nanthilda is with child again. She has had two boys yet, but one was stillborn. Isabeau has delivered her husband a healthy girl a few months ago. I hope my sons shall soon meet their cousins. I hope Constance gives me some girls though. A man must secure alliances with his foes, even through his children.”

“With you and Constance as parents, your daughters will turn kings' heads.”

Godfrey laughed heartily. “Well, first I need daughters.” he gave him a look that seemed warm. “And you? Did you have any cousins to give my sons?”

Roland shrugged. “Not yet. Soon, I hope. I need a bride first.”

“With your comely allure, this will come soon.”

Roland gazed in the distance, dreaming of her. “Hopefully.” he whispered.

 

Later that night, after he had feasted, when the manor had emptied of its guests and night had fallen, Roland headed in the cold to Constance's room. Godfrey was who knew where and Roland trusted he would be left alone talking with his former betrothed.

When he entered the room, she was reading some parchment by the window next to the fireplace. She noticed him and suddenly jumped to her feet, agape and bowed. She held her head high, as regally as possible, and all clues of emotion or surprise vanished.

“You truly are beautiful.” Roland snarled. “Beautiful and cruel.”

Constance frowned. “Go to your room.” she said masking her fear. “You are drunk.”

Roland sneered. “Oh no.” he said. “I am far from drunk.” he stepped closer, threatening. “Was it so easy to discard a sacred oath? Was it so easy no to seek to let me know what you've done? Were you ashamed, or were you just such a coward you feared I might say no? Huh? Tell me. Tell me it was the former. I would have understood, you know? I would have gladly freed you from your word if it meant not marrying an unfaithful cunt as you. I would have find a suitable bride elsewhere. But you didn't free me. You were selfish in that matter.” he mugged. “You whore! I sacrificed great things to give you something worthy of you. Wanna see?”

Constance's eyes opened wide as Roland removed his tunic to reveal his bare chest. She gagged and Roland's eyes hardened, noticing the horror in her eyes and how abhorred she was.

“Look at me.” he said, brutally undressing, revealing more scars than skin, white, out of place amidst the tan he gained in Syria.

Constance made a step back and gave a frightened and shocked yelp. His once flawless chest was now covered with wounds and she almost gagged when she noticed the swelling of some of his scars. He was a nobleman no longer. He had become a monster, a leper even, and she wished she never saw what was hidden behind his fine shirt. She turned away and nearly gave a sob, gagging at the view.

“LOOK AT ME!” Roland roared, tearing from her a frightened yelp. “All these years! All these years I have sacrificed more than you would have in your life! I waged war and stained my soul with sin! I have fought and suffered for you and for your desires! I have fought to give you wealth and comfort, convinced that you stayed true to your word! To be worthy of you! And now I learn that you married my brother?! I learn that you gladly married him the second I was away?! You betrayed me! You were my damnation! You stripped me from Heaven! You condemned me to Hell!”

Constance turned away and faced him, hot tears in her darkening eyes, icing with anger. “So what?” she seethed. “I have a full husband who stayed here to take matters in his own hands and made his lands a prosperous domain. I have a husband who courted me and was here for me when my betrothed went away to die for a man who abandoned his own. I chose my fate and I chose how I want to live. I knew you would never give me what I wanted; I knew you couldn’t.” she sneered herself, full of contempt. “My husband understands me. What use could I have ever had of you? I would only have been a thing in the decor! My husband is as kind as to let me have a say! My husbands never laid with whores or raped women or killed men! My husband is rich and willing to be prosperous! You are only good at fighting and revel in mire! I don't give a damn about your so called damnation! You chose your fate I and I chose well!”

With a roar, Roland threw the table across the room, tearing a yelp from her; but Constance held herself straighter, determined not to let him know of the power of his anger.

“You whore! You insufferable cunt! You traitor! You devil!” he seethed, stepping closer, towering over her, his eyes two burning suns of ire. His hand hovered over his sword.

“Go on.” she said gritting. “Try and let's see who is the worst of us. The man who is willing to succumb his anger, who killed and raped and maimed, of the wife abused by her husband's brother.” her eyes grew dark. “Now, get out of my room.”

Roland panted. “To tell – to tell” he laughed. “To tell I could be freed so easily.” he grew serious again. “Oh, I hope you bring my brother many more children. I hope they keep you from sleeping, that you will shit and vomit as they are brought into the world, that they will suckle your breasts down. I hope you go out everyday so that people see you and your decay; those hips fattening, this waist swelling, those wrinkles sinking, this complexion dimming. Oh, I hope your decay will be slow. I hope you get what you deserve.”

Constance gave a cold smile. “And I wish you as few more scars as possible.” she grew haughty again. “I bid you a good night.”

Roland sneered. “As if you cared!”

“I don't.”

Roland slammed the door behind him. She had been just as cruel to him as he had been to Ide. If anything he yearned to come back to her more. He shed a tear thinking of her and his heart hammered in his chest as he was about to gag from this overwhelming storm perpetually stirring in his core.

Something lurked in the hallway. Something moved and Roland's heart suddenly began to pound in his chest. The thrill of danger. All of his senses set in motion and his old war reflexes sprang back from where their slept as he turned around, his eyes darting from one corner to the other.

He gripped the handle of his sword. “Whoever is here, show yourself, or be killed.”

A flash of steel, a sudden move, someone rushing to attack, a dagger, the smell of fear. Roland dodged the blow. He felt it run around. He unsheathed his sword and in a quick motion, reacting in darkness, struck the bag of flesh and heard it gargle and fall.

He went over the corpse, guided by the warmth of flesh and blood, noticed his spasms through the moonlight, heard its last whimpers. He turned it around with the tip of his blade and saw he was dressed in the way of the servants.

“Who sent you?” he pressed the blade of his throat.

The man died before he even uttered a word. Roland sighed, wiped the blood off the blade on his shirt and as he sheathed it back, felt the boulder crushing his lungs. He collapsed on the hard floor and panted, each breath more difficult, his heart hammering like crazy, shaking and wheezing.

“God dwells here.” he choked. “God dwells here.” he tried to recall her scent, her hair, her laughter. “Ide.” he whispered as he cried. “Ide.”

He remained sitting against the wall until someone – he lost track who – called murder. He watched in silence as people came to take the corpse, heard his brother mumbling something like outrage or apologies, saw Constance and all around look at him with fear, heard wails and gags, saw the coming and going of a small throng, felt someone bring him up and guide him to his room and someone undress him and ready him for bed. He lived all this as though he wasn't there. He was a corpse himself. That something dark stirred and Roland laid on his bed in tears, paralyzed, barely breathing. He cried some more recreating Ide's presence only to realize she wasn't there; that perfection was not to be achieved.

She wasn't there. Roland cried some more, dozing off to sleep while the demons danced and came back to haunt his dreams with their spare of screams and night terrors.

 

Mahaut was beautiful. Her hair was hidden under a veil and crowned with countless flowers. Her dress was made of blue silk and her under dress dragged on the flagstones of the church.

Ide watched her calmly smile, not a smile of bliss, but rather of satisfaction. Satisfaction she wasn't under her brother's yoke anymore, satisfaction to go away, simply go away, away from this town that brought her so little.

Mary was in the crowd, holding tight on her children, her husband behind her, glancing to her sister from time to time but always bearing a sorry smile. Ide didn't care. She didn't care about nothing now. There was nothing, nothing but a void to be emptied again. She forced a smile of her lips to please Mahaut but it was far from sincere.

She stood behind them all, the whole town gathered to church to witness the most interesting and glorious event to have ever taken place on this scorched piece of dust. She drank. Pint after pint she drank, so that she staggered instead of walking and was red and dizzy. He breath had the putrid stench of booze and vomit. She was a disheveled mess, although she had tried to look good for Mahaut's sake, not that she could see her surrounded as she was by her family and the townsfolk.

Ide kept her promise. She came. She doubted she would ever feast with her friend, but at least she came.

She felt nauseous. The amount of ale she drank in the past few days had made her perpetually hungover. Samar came back to live with her and Ide sensed her displeasure and ordeal living with such a mess. She had been nothing but kind and Ide had only made her miserable again. When she thought of it, she drank some more to numb it all.

A pang in her stomach drew her back to reality. Mahaut walking towards the church, the chatters, the songs, the insults; the monks' whisperings, the men's growling, the curses, the insults. Ide suddenly grew aware of them all around her, of their mistrust.

“What is she doing here?” “She is cursing us again.” “She came to eat us all.” “Has she not have enough lives? Has she not enough tormented us?” “The witch will kill us all.” “Careful children, you do not want her to look at you.” “She touched you! Stay away.” “Have you seen her eyes? She lied with the devil.” “A whore.” “A witch.” “A curse.” “Be gone.” “Die.” they said. “Die” “Die” “Die” they chanted.

All around her people glowered and snarled. Ide's heart rammed in her chest and frantically looked around, although paralyzed, a prey surrounded by a pack of wolves. She gulped and gave a look at Mahaut who kept walking towards her husband-to-be. She passed without a sight and Ide wasn't visible under the sea of people anyway. Her only chance at getting out of this mess alive had vanished, for in their eyes she saw blood-lust waiting only a word, a few orders from the men of God to cast her out, to devour her, to ravage her flesh, to skin her alive, to burn her in a pyre. She could already feel the bruises and the rope on her neck. She knew them as well as they didn't her.

“See, my brothers and sisters,” a monk cried with a smile as Mahaut entered the church, out of ears. “Evil cannot be cast out if it still breathes! The devil lingers there and I say there is but few solution! We must expel it or the incarnation must perish.”

Ide's eyes dripped tears. She walked towards the monk. If anything, Roland's departure made her braver – or more foolish. He left her and there was nothing but death to await. “Why?” she howled. “Why must you be so engaged in destroying me?”

The monk gave a cruel smile. “See how the devil seeks to tempt God! See how God keeps it at bay!” he leaned to her ear. “You know why, witch. No one challenges the power of God. Not even you.” he drew back and cut his cheek with a sharp ring. “See!” he cried around. “The devil bit me! The devil is in her! She is the devil! She is a demon! She is a witch! She must be purified.”

“Purify her!” yelled a woman, throwing a stone at her.

“Purify her! Be gone devil!” yelled another, throwing his share.

“Yes, brothers and sisters! Hear God's words! Purify this wench and may the devil be gone!” cried the monk before he gave a cold smile, watching blood drip from the crown of Ide's head.

“She laid with the devil!” yelled another monk.

“I have laid with cruel men, but never the devil.” Ide tried to say, but they didn't hear her.

Under yells and protests, she found herself under a rain of stones scorching her skin, drawing blood from her every limbs. They began to beat her with sticks and soon their yelling covered to even the songs in church. Ide wondered about Mahaut, wondered about Mary. Did they hear them? Did they feel her dying? In any case, who cared? She was dead anyway. She should be pleased of this relief.

For a fleeting moment she thought Roland came to her aid and delivered her from her misery, but he wasn't there. He left and he did not love her. He must have forgotten her anyway. They all did. Once she was one of them, now she was the devil.

A voice suddenly sprang up and roared and it was her who roared – roared or howled, she couldn't make out the sound – while another screamed her running, and Ide, shedding blood and tears walked away, staggering from pain and booze and began to run until she was in the forest and passed out on the moss and closed her eyes, willing to let herself die and be taken by the forest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to finish this story and do that Crashing Waves sequel for nanowrimo, I wrote 4,000 words yesterday and sought to finish this chapter (while reading some Margaret Atwood and the Sea Queen). Tbh this chapter was quite satisfying to write and I hope you 'enjoyed' it, although Ide and Roland seem to have parted for good. Also I agree with Ide, Roland SHOULD have come storming through the crowd and killed or wounded some men.... 
> 
> Also, shhhh but I have been writing some IdexRoland fluff and it will be angsty but overall cute and OMG I have so many great things planned for them.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. Thank you for your reviews. It keeps me motivated.❤❤❤


	14. Of blood and ashes

 

 

“Well this was quite the scene.” Samar said as she washed Ide's wounds. “I heard Mahaut went furious after they attacked you. She was such in a rage many feared she would put arrows through their bodies. She came to see you, by the way, not that you were awake at the time. She cursed the town and left forbidding her husband to ever trade with the monks of the priory.” Samar wrung the cloth in a bucket leaving patterns of blood in the water. “She cried when she left, you know? I guess she cried ever since. They must be in Paris by now, to set things right and prepare their moving to London. Her husband must have introduced her to his mother and friends. She will abide by another king, now. What does that makes us? Enemies?”

Ide stirred in her bed and turned her back on Samar with pangs and whimpers. She sighed, her breath still smelling of ale.

Samar looked down with sadness and hurting. “I buried it under the oak.” she softly said. “I shrouded it with only a piece of cloth. The forest will take care of it and it will grow a tall tree.”

Ide carried her hand to her empty womb. The blood; it still tainted her teeth, still lingered in her mouth as if she had devoured it just as they said she had all the others. “It's the second one I have given death.” Ide croaked, her voice hollow from any emotion.

Samar sighed behind her. There was no arguing someone who thought themselves doomed. “I'll fetch more water.” she said standing up. “I'll bake bread and tend your hives. Rest your body. When you are healed, you'll need to get back to work.” she put on a thick cloak. “It does not do to wallow. It brings only more sorrow.”

Ide said nothing and Samar looked down, whacked by her sadness, as comprehensible as it was. The door slammed and Ide turned back.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Now, she had nothing left of him. Now, everything they said about her was true. Now, she was convinced of her death-bringing. She saved Roland but the offspring had paid its price. She cursed herself, cursed her womb for so much bloodshed. If that thing they buried under the oak was the price to pay for Roland's life, then what of that sliced ghost that came haunting her dreams each night she thought herself safe? If that man was the price, what of the thing? What of her guilt?

Ide closed her eyes and cried some more. She was horrible. She was horrible to Samar, to Roland, to everyone. She was nothing. She would have rather Samar did not save her and let her die in the forest. That would have been preferable and even so, what use could have a child of a mother such as herself, although fated to death? She was shit and she knew it. She scratched her itchy skin till she bled. She bit herself when the pain was intolerable. Mahaut wasn't here to watch over her, Mary would soon be gone and Samar was in pain of her. Dying would be the greatest favor she could do them.

Her wrists were covered with healing gaping wounds. When she closed her eyes she saw it, tiny, bloody, red, misshaped like some skinned, flabby, still creature that only brought pain in her stomach and agony in her mind. She couldn't bring herself to mourn it though. She did not deserve it and it deserved better. Ever since Roland left she had felt constantly on fire, skinned alive and deprived of limbs people constantly bit off her body.

Ide stood up mechanically and poured herself some ale, drank a pint and judging it wasn't enough to quench her need for it, dipped her mouth whole into the cask, drinking, drowning in booze in search for some relief and some self torture.

A cup had been enough and now she couldn't stop, engaged in her own destruction. Her whole self was turmoil and sometimes, the turmoils became storms and Ide wept and cried and wished to get rid of the pain, exploding in a big loud scream; others, she wanted to disappear, swallowed by the void of her existence.

Ide was caught in limbo, between life and death. she did not belong to the world of the living, nor the dead.

Alone, she laid back on her empty cold bed, ale-soaked, hollow and absolutely wrecked not willing enough to cry, not willing enough to feel.

 

It had been weeks since Roland returned to the old manor. Godfrey showed him around, asked him to steer the work on the keep, had invited him to hunting parties, had given him a horse and a hound and he mostly spent his days in idleness, like a nobleman reading and giving himself up to refined tasks.

Roland went round and round and round and round in circles in the manor. He needed steel, he needed war. He needed to keep his war-reflexes sharp.

Fortunately, he often found holes in Godfrey's schedule for him and spent some time in the yard training, sharpening his sword, engaging in tactics on how to win a fight. The need to train was indeed more dire, for ever since his feast of return, he suffered countless attempts on his life. First it was a stone which almost crushed him had Stephen not been there to save him, then, it was a cut on a saddle, then, a mad horse, then it stopped for a while and then, after a few days, it started again and another man tried to kill him and Roland shed blood.

It was like being in crusade again; always on the move, always looking around, always alert for any attack to arise. It was being a prey, constantly watching its back, hardly sleeping so long as the threat lived. Roland was surrounded it seemed; surrounded by foes and at night it almost felt like the desert, the tension and cold being too much of the same. The only difference lied in decor and stealth. At least Saracens were kind and refined enough to shout their attacks.

What he needed was his curse.

As much as he tried to recreate Ide's presence beside him, picturing a life where she would be his wife and the mother of his sons, his aftermaths were all filled with tears of despair to ever regain that part he lost, that sanity he sacrificed to crusade. He yearned for her. He needed to come back to her but his motivation faltered with the frequent ambushes he experienced; and he resolved that he would only leave the situation mended, the silent partner found and the menace exterminated. He did not want any threat against his family with her to stand in his way.

That day, Godfrey had planned yet another hunting party. Roland didn't understand why he was so engaged in hunting given the freezing grass and the expected snow. All the games animals would have been gone by now, sleeping deep into the woods under embankments and undergrowth to spend winter in warmth. But after all, Godfrey liked hunting. It was satisfying to know you could crush something with little care, like an almighty god. Roland knew that feeling. It disgusted him.

Roland shivered, bitten by a sharp cold, even wearing furs. He could hardly wit to return in Syria. There, in Winter he would eat dates and wear light fabrics and let warm winds ruffle his hair. Life there was sweeter than it seemed.

He rode, feeling his horse's muscles in powerful motions, galloping after the few deers and boars they could find. His horse was calm and the saddle had been checked by both him and Stephen. Yet a lingering feeling of danger remained and lurked in his mind.

He gave Stephen a look behind him. Godfrey had placed him in the back of the party while Roland was in the middle but Stephen, when Godfrey had spurred on ahead, chose to remain close to this friend he had not seen in years.

Godfrey was already far ahead of them and Roland faltered, thinking of going back to Ide. With his horse, it would only be a matter of an hour.

He suddenly lost track of Godfrey in a clearing from which several trails originated. He stopped and Stephen beside him and their horses fidgeted about, while Roland cursed, wondering where to go.

“That's my brother! Always careless about those behind.” Roland groaned, dismounting. He tried to figure out which way the hunters were gone, but he was no hunter. “If Mahaut were here...” she would mock him and spit at him for leaving Ide.

A sudden crack and his horse neighed and Stephen was thrown to the ground as his own horse jerked about.

“What in the..” Stephen yelled.

A scream rang through the clearing and a few men ran towards them with blades and bludgeons. Stephen cursed and unsheathed his sword. Roland – who never parted from his own – calmly considered their paths, their moves, their strength and weaknesses. One staggered, one had thin arms, one had a scar on his wrist and another missed an eye. The hunt suddenly took an entirely different nature.

He entered his war-like state and his eyes fell onto nothing but flesh to cut, throats to slice and limbs to ravage. He could almost feel the taste of their blood.

He lost track of Stephen. First rule of war: survive. Count the dead later.

They were ten. Ten against one was deadly, ten against two was folly. In one move he slit two throats and whirled around to open the staggerer's stomach for guts to fall. The men he sliced the throats of still breathed, Roland took care to ease their pains with striking their skulls with his blade. Stephen screamed something and Roland saw three men coming to him from the corner of his eye. An arrow was shot at him and Roland dodged it while a man tried to beat him with his bludgeons. Roland yowled. He thrust his sword into a chest and waved his blood-soaked steel around to slice calves and knees. His attackers were brought down. Roland, seeing red, smashed his sword on their head again and again until they were gaping wounds, a slop of brain and blood and bones and flesh.

He gave a beastly grin. The man whose stomach he opened still walked, howling, trying to keep his guts inside and the one-eyed man, taken by fear, stepped back as Roland walked towards him, threatening, covered with blood, hardly wincing at his wounds. He was like those demons who feasted on his crimes.

The man tried to escape but Roland threw a dagger in his knee and as the man still ran slightly limping, Roland ran to his left side – the side without an eye – and slashed him from throat to forehead, repeating the move from forehead to bellybutton. The man gargled and fell and Roland, towering over him, thrust his sword through his throat.

The yelling stopped and all of a sudden Roland was brought back to reality. The horses left and Stephen knelt down, covered with bruises, bandaging his arm that had been cut. All around were corpses and steaming blood, pieces of brains and severed limbs. Roland had killed seven men, Stephen killed two and wounded one who got away, with pain and effort.

Roland knelt to his friend. “Shame our horses are gone. I would have taken you to my healer for that arm.”

Stephen bitterly laughed. “So this is what you've learn in crusade?”

Roland's breath cut short and he fell on the blood-soaked grass, panting and breathing with difficulty. His heard rammed against his ribcage and he felt himself crawling in his skin. Ide. He must go back to Ide. He crawled on the ground, grasping earth and grass, tasting the blood – he gagged. Each moves he made paralyzed him more. He wanted to scream and shook with anguish.

“Roland!” Stephen yelled. “Roland!”

“Ai- Air.” Roland choked. “I need air.”

“Dammit!” Stephen hit his friend's chest again and again until Roland breathed in as if he was drowning.

Roland sat back on the ground and breathed in repeatedly singing one of Samar's songs to himself. “God dwells here. God dwells here.” he said.

Stephen sat back, groggy. “What happened?” he asked, still shocked at Roland's state.

“The price for slaughter.” Roland panted. He gulped. “I learn to slaughter well in crusade, but it comes with a price and it feels like you're set on fire and brought to Hell. It breaks you. It breaks the human inside and it feels like you don't belong either to the world of beasts or that of humans. You just become a monster.” Roland cursed himself for bringing that up.

“Does it go away?”

Roland gave a sour laugh. “No. It can be numbed or atoned in the best of cases, but it never goes away.”

“How can you atone something as terrible as this?”

Roland thought of her. “Connection.” his voice was soft and it brought warm shivers down his spine as if he had been alone in the cold and found an hearth to find some relief. “Did I scare you?” he asked. “Do you see me as a monster now that you have seen what I did?”

“You are my friend.” Stephen said. “Even if you scared me, I would try and give you the benefit of the doubt. They attacked us for no reason. Yours was the justice of God.” he gave a look around and winced seeing those he killed. “I am no better than you in the matter. I killed too – although with less savagery.”

Roland scoffed. “The man of law and the crusader. Talk about a parable!”

Screams arose when the back of the hunting party came across them in the clearing. Hounds sniffed all around and they were kept from licking any drop of blood on the ground. Stephen was tended for and Godfrey, warned by a horn, blanched as he saw the carnage around. He almost gagged and Roland thought it was not so different as slaughtered boars and rabbits. Perhaps it wasn't just as refined.

Godfrey yelled treason and apologized to his brother – funny, he always apologized. Roland had never heard so many apologies at once. He insisted on getting Roland back to the manor and take care of him and reassured him saying he would find the culprits with great laments and “I am so cross, so cross indeed”, “What a relief! What a relief!”, “If I find them, I swear...”. Roland refused the offer deeming that Stephen's company was of better use and that he would wish to make sure his friend was taken care of well.

Thus, the hunting party was cut short and everyone returned from whence they came.

Godfrey lent them both a horse and such humiliated were they both riding the same horse towards Stephen's house. Rosamund, with a great deal of cries, washed Stephen's wounds and fed him some mead and bread and patched him up, worried about his health. There was no sign of a fever. It was a knowledge Ide had given Roland in the forest when they talked in bed or outside or together in the same bath between maddening kisses and tender embraces.

Stephen's children ran around the house and Roland laughed as they tried to attack him. He fought his gloom and played along with the children, mimicking a dragon as they hit him with their little fists giggling. Roland ruffled their hair and tickled them to laughter until Rosamund decided that it was enough and that both men should be left alone. She brought them outside to harvest apples from an apple-tree Stephen had planted the day they married.

His mind wandered to a future with Ide as his wife and their own children running around giggling their lungs out.

“That is the tenth attempt on my life ever since I came back.” Roland said. “Why so much? Why am I sought dead so much?”

“And you said you weren't attacked that much in the forest?”

“After I killed those who already left me for dead and stayed hidden, no.” he frowned. “They must have thought me dead with them. I have been attacked ever since I resurfaced.”

Oddly, after he killed those men in the forest and remained hidden, he had been left alone; but at the manor, after he had killed, they relentlessly came back. Stephen had been kept unaware of his coming back home even though Roland had sent a messenger there. The messenger had been killed and disposed of, there was no doubt of it.

The danger was not astray, no. It was closer to home; it sat by the fireplace, enjoying meat as blood juice dripped from fat lips. If so many men tried to kill him – trained and armed men – then they abode by the words of one man only, for wolves, when living in a pack, obeyed to one of them and one only. That shepherd wolf, Roland dreaded to name him, afraid to curse his own blood.

“They were dressed as servants.” Stephen said. “They abide by someone wealthy and powerful.” he sighed. “Roland, I can't punish the culprits if they are my masters.”

Roland groaned. “What says it is them? What reason could they have to seek me dead?”

Stephen shrugged. “Many crusaders returned richer than ever. Your brother married your former betrothed. He inherited your uncle's lands. The reasons are all too many.”

“Do you think he had my messenger killed?”

“Perhaps.”

Roland shuddered. “I don't like this. I feel like his prey.”

Stephen sighed and eased himself on his chair. “It could also be your mother, your sisters or even Constance.”

“Why?” Roland gave a puzzled face. “What would their reasons be?”

“Their husbands may be jealous of your wealth and they would bribe men to kill you and bring it to them. Your mother perhaps didn't want you to inherit. It could also be a monk, a priest, anyone. Crusaders return richer, that reason alone can bring someone to murder. Or it could be love, husbands of women you laid with, cheated women... People tends to hate their neighbor nowadays.” he gulped some ale and frowned. “Poison is a woman's weapon and you suffered already a poison attempt. What to say that it is not your witch? What says she took so good a care of you only to make you believe she wouldn't kill you? What says that she doesn't seek you dead but wants to be seen as innocent to your eyes. What says she doesn't seek your fortune?”

“What says it isn't you?” Roland snapped, shaking in anger.

Stephen started.

“Huh? What says it isn't you? What says you don't seek my wealth and end? What says you didn't kill my messenger? What says you are not aware of the extents of my crime and fomented some scheme to bring me to God's justice? What says you didn't fake coming to my aid and being my friend only to be true in my eyes? What says that you, a man of law and honor didn't soil your hands and sinned under that same pretense to punish me, a greater sinner and take my wealth?”

“That is preposterous.” Stephen scoffed. “Roland, I would never...”

“Ide has many reasons to kill me and I wouldn't blame her, but I trust her as much as she hates me. Why should I trust you when you drag her name in the mud?” Roland clenched his fists. “Tell me now, Stephen, do you still believe your claims true?”

Stephen shook his head. “Allegations are hard to make when proofs are so few yet so many. The culprit has never shown his face.”

“We know many men tried to kill me one way or the other. Isn't that proof enough?”

Stephen rubbed his temples. “We know your messenger disappeared so that none of us knew of your returning home and that you yourself had no idea. We know that you have been attacked in the forest shortly after you sent your messenger. We know that you killed many of your attackers but that a few survived and that those came back to look for you and kill you. We know that they are dead and buried who knows where.” Stephen gulped the rest of his ale. “We know that once disappeared, along with you, you have been left alone until you recently came back. Then, you were attacked again, straight from the start. Those are the facts.” Stephen looked at his wounds and bruises. “I would never have done that to you.” he said softly. “Never. On my life.”

“Can you swear on Rosamund's? Your sons?”

Stephen narrowed his eyes, gritty. “I swear.”

“Then I believe you.” Roland winced. His old scars hurt him, from time to time, but then it was those Ide had to patch up. “Someone still wants me dead, though. We need to catch them in action.”

“I'll watch over you.” Stephen said. “I am here for you. No one will ever harm you. Not on my watch, not if I have a say.”

“Sometimes you don't have a say.” Roland grew forlorn. “Sometimes you stand in the way of an arrow and get yourself killed. I don't want to lose you. You are much too valuable and useful alive than dead.”

Stephen laughed. “Why, what a compliment!”

Roland chuckled. “Glad you see it that way. It was intended as such, indeed.”

Stephen grew serious again, brows furrow. “Whoever seeks your death, I will bring them under God's justice.”

“Then it's a promise.”

Roland shook Stephen's hand, binding his word to his.

 

They came with torches, with forks with sticks, with rocks, led by Joseph, the only one who knew the path to Ide's home. It was dusk when they came and Samar had just finished cleaning Ide's wounds and Ide had spent her day crouched in her bed, drowning in dry tears and misery, smelling of alcohol. They came chanting, growling, raging, howling, roaring. They came and so did the monks of the priory, with all their satisfaction to see a threat burn.

“Die!” they roared. “The devil must die! Kill the witch! Kill the devil! Kill her or she'll eat us all! For our children!”

Ide whimpered and wailed her hands on her womb and crouched harder. The more they chanted, the more she wailed and brought her hands to her ears, with a great deal of plaintive cries, closing her red dry eyes.

Samar bustled around Ide and shook her up. “Ide. Ide wake up.” her voice echoed with fear. “Ide, for crying out loud! Ide you must get up. Get up and run or they'll kill you!”

“Let them.” she croaked. “Let them end this for good.”

Samar scoffed. “Oh no! No! You don't get to decide that! You don't get to let them win!” anger lurked beneath her words. “You don't get to let that shit haunting you win!”

“I have nothing to live for. All inside me is dead.” Ide sobbed.

Samar grabbed her and forced her to stand. She slapped her. “Now,” she shook with rage. “You will stop this nonsense right now! You will get up and fight!” she wrinkled her nose. “I thought you had more pride than that. Let yourself be beaten by men... What a shame.”

Ide sniffled and drank some ale. “Let them come.” she staggered. “I am tired anyway.”

“If you die, then I die with you. If you die, everything that I was, everything that Tom was, everything that your family was will die with you. Who to carry on? Who to remember the dead and honor them? Who to remember the souls you tried to bring into this world? None!” she seethed. “Ide,” she took her in her arms for a single embrace. “Sometimes, you must do the hard thing and get back to work. Sometimes you must fight even if it is hard. Ide, I beg you! Save yourself! Please! Please!”

Ide blinked. “There is no saving me Samar. You should run. You should save yourself.”

The crowd still roared outside, sounding more like beasts than men, growling at once. When she looked outside, Ide saw the forest as if it were aflame and Joseph was there, looking full of remorse, knowing well what would happen, knowing that he guided them here for a purposeful death by fire.

“Yes! Yes she is the devil!” cried the prior, outside. “For she murdered in cold blood your sons and daughters, for she killed your families, for she killed everyone and there is no delivering from this evil than death by fire! If we don't end it, then there is no life possible! It will be back again and again to haunt us and torment us and feast on our families! It will start by infants, eating straight from the womb, then it will come for your children and then your wives and seduce your husbands making them its minions in its bacchanalia! End it! Burn it! Burn this heinous, odious thing hiding in the mud like an animal! Hunt it! Give it no rest! Strike it with blades and soak the ground with its blood and ravage its sinful vessel until nothing remains for its vessel is corrupted as well! Kill it! Kill it for God's glorious name!”

“Kill the witch! Kill the witch!” each sound crueler, meaner, madder.

It was hot in the house, as hot as if a fire raged inside. The hearth was cold.

“Come out! Come out bitch!” cried a woman.

“Come out and repent! Come out and confess! Come out witch and no harm shall be done!” lies.

Samar gave Ide a look, still in her corner of the house, empty of everything. She sighed and knelt before her, took her chin in her hand. “Listen to me very carefully.” she said. “I took a great care of you and all I ever knew I passed it onto you. I never taught you magic. I never taught you death. I taught you life and that is all. Now, they want a witch. I shall be that witch. They'll come for you when they're through with me and I need you to run away as fast as you can afterwards.” Ide shook her head in horror, weeping for the first time in days. “Run,” insisted Samar, shutting Ide's silent objections. “And wander as far as you can. Reach Constantinople, Rome, London, Seville or even Jerusalem. Never let them get you. I passed my legacy onto you and through you, my legacy will live on. If you have a daughter, teach her my art. If you don't, pick a clever girl.” her eyes were hard.

“Samar.” Ide begged. “Don't do this, please. Not to me, not for me.”

Samar wiped a tear off her cheek and gave a peaceful smile. “My whole life has been defined and ruled over by men. I have been treated like a slave, I have been bought and sold, I have been set free and captured again under another master. That is the fate of many women here.” her fingers lingered over the markings on her face. “I let them rule my life. I will not let them have my death too. If I sacrifice myself for you - for me - then I am taking it back.” she grew harder. “You will make me immortal. Our line must never fade.”

“Samar, I don't understand.” Ide wept.

“Survive. Grow old, and you'll understand.”

The light was red outside.

Samar stood up and walked towards the door. “Life is choices, Ide. You must choose to get back on your feet. It is hard but you must choose to carry on.” she gave a silent sob. “I wish we had more time.”

“Samar, no!” Ide rushed after her.

Outside they faced the crowd. Joseph was there, leading the pack and Peter stood not far behind, that same mad look on his face. Ide wondered if Mary talked him out of it; if she would one day forgive him. They all glowered, monsters in madness.

“See! The witch is out! Seize her!” the prior yelled.

Samar took a defensive stance in front of Ide. “You wanted a witch! Here I am!” her voice rang clear through the clearing.

The prior stepped forward and faced Samar. “Step aside, old crone. We came for that thing behind you.”

Ide startled.

“You won't touch a hair of her head.” Samar seethed. She gave a threatening smile. “You brought them here full of madness and illusions. Little do you know that illusion is precisely what witches are versed into. Tell me, priest, how many infants will you kill after you are through with me? How many lives will you sacrifice for that of a woman.”

Anger distorted his face.

Samar gave a peaceful smile. “That's what I thought.” she took her staff against the outer wall of the house. “Well, I suppose the time has come.” she cleared her throat. “Aye, you are right priest!” she roared in the clearing. “I killed those infants, took them straight from the womb to my cauldron, boiled them, ate them to remain alive all this time! I shape-shifted multiple times and I shall do it again! I shall torment you again and again and take maidens under my wings to corrupt them and feed on their youth! I shall inhabit them to seduce men to make them all bow to me, to make them all cheat on fealty and virtue! Aye! Your claims are true! I killed children and you were all blind to it! Aye! You come here with threats on my life, well priest I say I will not die! I confess, it is true, but you shall never kill me; for I am a woman of magic and I will be back, as an infant, as a maiden, as a crone, as an owl, as a goat, but I will be back and my revenge upon yourselves will be your death! Death to all! Curse to all.”

She smiled and faked a trance, holding on her staff, biting her thumb and covering her face with blood for more realism – the more the better, for deceit was often found in excess. She played the game of the priest through and through and sang and all stepped back in fear of this woman who looked so much like those demons the monks talked about. Samar laughed. It was working better than she expected. Stupidity was as reliable as ever.

“Aye! I curse you! Your rivers will turn blood and your fields to ashes! Rains of fire will pour from the sky and with it diseases that shall kill your children, your husbands, your families and you, yourself, straight from the womb! I curse you! By the forest, by the goddess, by the devil! I curse you to an endless night without light! I curse you to live in the mud and turn pigs, such as you are! I curse you! I curse you! I curse you!”

At that precise moment, a gale of cold wind rattled the forest and flickered the fire of the torches. Screams and squeals of fear echoed in the forest and Samar had the satisfaction to notice some of the monks were scared. She had been convincing enough.

“Now,” she said to the prior's ear. “They need to be reassured, your crowd. What will you do? Take Ide and risk losing their faith, or will you take me instead, abiding by their wishes?”

“Samar.” Ide tried to plead but Samar shut her objection with fierce eyes.

The prior gave a cruel cold smile. “Joseph!” he called. “Peter!” both men stepped beside him. “Enchain the crone. She shall be tried for witchcraft and shall receive her just punishment.” his eyes wandered to Ide. “For witches always get their just punishment.”

Ide's blood iced in her veins.

“I am sorry.” Joseph said.

Ide suddenly raged. “Keep you sorries for yourself! You guided them here! You betrayed me!” she seethed. “Why, was it so easy betraying a friend? Why did you do it? For the pleasure of punishing my hard words? Did you want to prove yourself a man? Did you want to be well seen? Did they offer you free supplies? Was it so easy a bribe that you decided I wasn't worth it?”

Joseph kept silent, his face hardened in front of the truth.

Ide scoffed and Samar glowered. “Mahaut should have shot you dead.” Ide cried. “You should have died instead of good people!”

“We are not so expendable, Ide.” Joseph said. “You chose this.”

Ide scoffed again, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No. You did.”

The prior smiled. “Now, now, Joseph. There is no need to talk a witch through. Let us come back to the village.”

Joseph nodded and away they went, Samar between them. The prior suddenly turned around and smiled.

“The devil is still in that house! The forest must be purified from the evil one! Burn it all! Let God's glory be born again in this sacred place! Let ashes take evil away and let us build a chapel here to remember God's victory!”

“No!” Ide screamed!

They began with the cabin, then the hives and all was set aflame, ale, honey, mead – it all went away in a raging fire and bees fell in swarms dead on the ground. Ide knelt, keeping her ears shut from the howling of fire and suffering of her bees.

A cat hissed and Ide saw Night, the black cat, running towards the throng, about to attack.

“Her familiar! Kill it! Kill it for it is the evil one!” yelled the prior.

They set it aflame too, and Night ran around, screaming like a feline torch, and Ide wept and howled and cried, sharing the pain, the agony, the ordeal. She screamed and it seemed she had no voice anymore but a long long cry of agony. The pain, it was too much.

Samar bore the scene in silence, weeping, closing her eyes, cursing their cruelty.

“Burn the house!” they set it aflame and turned away, leaving the clearing on fire.

Ide gave a desperate look behind her. Her family's tapestries! Her wedding dress! Her child's clothes! Fire threatened it all.

“No!” she screamed again, alone in the blaze.

She hurried into the house and gathered the tapestries, put them in her chest along with her dress and her child's clothes. A joist fell, trapping her but Ide took the chest and ran into the fire, a blanket to cover her, ran and ran away, deep into the forest, by the river, without turning back while all she ever was, all she ever had, all her memories with Roland burned.

She stopped to breathe but even at the river, air was stifled with ashes. Ide panted and panted and cried and cried, coughed and coughed, adding her tears to the water, collapsed on the ground and cried some more until she passed out, her eyes red from smoke and weeping, her throat sore from screams and ashes.

The forest burned. Haven turned inferno.

 

If there was something Godfrey loved more than his hunting parties, it was his feasts. Word went around that to repay the outrage of an attempt against his brother, he would throw one yet again. A feast to repay an outrage was a feast to display wealth and riches. It was a feast to be praised about; a feast to show virtue and appear holier than truth could tell. Roland chuckled. Indeed, that was Godfrey.

He walked from Stephen's house to his own bedchamber when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the yard, his eyes drawn by a familiar figure in the stable. He treaded carefully not to be seen and noticed, amidst the many horses Godfrey owned, a taller one, an Arab-breed. Roland listened around in the dark long building filled with straw and saw his horse; that same horse that ran away – or so he thought – when he had been attacked in the first place. Same size, same color. Another one drew his attention and he noticed that it was that of his squire; the one that carried his wealth.

Taken aback, Roland exited the stables. It was his horse, he was certain of it. All of the Frankish horses were small compared to those the Arabs had. It even had that mark on its back. If his horses were here, then it only meant one thing: those who tried to kill him so many times were in the manor.

Roland shook his head. “Oh Godfrey... You fool.” he muttered

He walked towards his room absentmindedly, pulled on his fine court clothes, carefully tied his sword on and came downstairs where guests were already swarming through the doors.

“Come now brother, why the sword?” asked Godfrey in the stairway.

“Let me through Godfrey.” Roland coldly said.

“Now, now, you vex me.” Godfrey pouted. “My guests hold no weapons. Why, I will think you mistrust me. You can rely on me, you know, to take care of your safety.”

Roland snorted. “You failed many times to prevent ambushes. May I remind you that I have almost been killed in this very hallway?”

Godfrey played a sadden face. “Listen, I understand your fears, trust me, I do. If that is to reassure you, you can place your sword on the chimney, where you will get a better look at it.”

Roland frowned. “If anything happens, I swear...” menace echoed his words.

“Come, now, brother. Who would I be if I let anything happen to my dear little brother. Come, sit by Constance's side. Stephen can sit beside you.”

So they sat, chatter increasing as the master and mistress of the house greeted their guests, declared the occasion an apology for Roland's long suffering as well as a feast honoring the deer they managed to bring down.

“Witnesses have reported a fire in the forest.” said Stephen. “I thought you should know.”

Roland's heart skipped a beat. “Nothing serious I hope?” with any luck, Ide would have escaped. He needed her alive.

“I don't know. I shall see to that tomorrow.”

Roland's eyes suddenly darted to the other side of the room, to a door ajar, where a familiar figure hid behind the wood. He silently told Stephen to catch a glimpse at it.

“Is that...” said Stephen in disbelief.

Roland nodded. “He tried to kill us hours ago. He is a servant.” in a bad shape though.

“Roland, so this mean...” said Stephen.

Roland glanced to Godfrey, his eyes hardened with a cold rage, then, to the man behind the door. In his eyes he tried to reflect what kind of cruel torture would be just to inflict upon such a man, cowering in the shadows. He would kill him before he even raised a dagger.

Godfrey stood up and smiled to his brother. “As an apology, to mend what has been done to you, Roland, I have decided to give you the finest pieces of meat we could find on this deer. Those are usually reserved for the lord, but today they are yours.”

A servant produced a fine plate in which meat glisten among berries. Roland's stomach growled, but mistrust was all for a warrior, especially one versed in the art of killing.

“I am not hungry for that.” Roland said, loud and clear, his voice rippling with laughter. “Let us thank instead those hounds who have taken down such a magnificent beast!” Godfrey blanched. Roland smiled and whistled and a hound ran to his feet under the smiles of the throng. “My brother, your feast is enough to fill my heart with gratitude and I can but thank you for this repayment for days of outrage! The least I can do, my lord is to thank you in the same way and as I know you love your hounds, I trust they will enjoy their part of the reward.”

He gave his plate to the hound who immediately wolfed it. In this part of the hall, everyone stood silent. Godfrey looked horrified and Roland smiled a cruel smile. The dog burped, took a few steps and fell on the floor, raising a great deal of gasps and screams as guests rose from their seats.

“Poison!” Roland immediately screamed. “Poison! Someone tried to poison me!”

Godfrey gave an intense look at the door behind which was the servant. “My hound! Whomsoever finds the fool who murdered my beloved hound shall receive wealth!”

All of a sudden it was a chaos of whispers and accusations growing into a storm of voices raising higher and higher. The throng's motion increased and soon it felt like a crowd of birds fighting.

Roland felt a sudden presence beside him, the reflection of a dagger on the table, and Godfrey's sight, all the more intense on him.

“Oh, Godfrey... You fool.” Roland growled.

He strengthened his grip on his table knife, stood up and turned around in a same motion and stabbed the man in the eye and he screamed his pain making the fighting guests turn around. Roland removed the knife with a terrible suction sound and the man fell on the floor.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

The servant winced and cried, and held his head in his hands, blood pouring on the fair pavement.

“Who sent you?” he asked again.

“Roland.” Stephen said. “Let me...”

“No.” Roland's voice lost what was human in it. “They won't stop until I make an example of this one. After all, this is what we do in crusade isn't it? This is God's justice.”

“Roland...” pleaded Stephen.

Roland answered grabbing the servant's shirt and slamming him on the table. He bent to his ear and said, loud enough for Godfrey to hear: “I know who sent you. I don't care how they see me after tonight, for after tonight it will be all over. I do not abide by the law of king Philip, nor that of king Henry. I abide by the law of king Baldwin and Baldwin likes me. We are more or less the same and without me to fight his battles, well, he would be at loss. Know that I will get away with it, just as easily as you could have.”

He stabbed the man again in his other eye, leaving gaping holes in his eye-sockets, drawing screams of terror and howls of pain from all around in the house. He caught a glimpse of Constance gagging, scared to death and of Godfrey, more terrified than ever he was. Stephen bore his shoulders down, grieving for his friend's soul. Roland didn't care. He would go to Hell anyway. There was no atoning what he did, nor what he would do. His hand shook. His scars burned. His demons danced.

On the battlefield, you saw them as beasts for slaughter: no more, no less.

Roland slit the servant's throat again and again until the head was ripped off the body, and heard weepings all around. His face was blood-soaked but he didn't care.

He brandished the head and all the guests stepped back. “Whoever tries to kill me again,” his voice rang with anger and hatred. “Will meet with the same fate! I will feed them to the wolves, eat their heart raw and bury their bones where no god exist! Try me again and I will eat you alive, ripping off flesh bit by bit until there is nothing of you but a carcass half fleshed out! If you try and kill me, you will die! I will kill you and your families and no one will ever remember you!”

That said, he left the table with the head in his hand and stopped by Stephen's side.

“I hope that scares them enough.” he whispered. “I hate raw meat.”

Stephen smiled. “Your act was barbaric, you know that. It is a chance Rosamund wasn't there.”

“Well, what can I say? I am a barbaric man.” his heart grew heavier. “If I do not die of guilt tonight that shall be a wonder. Come here tomorrow morning. I will need you.”

He walked away and stopped by Godfrey's side. He stepped back in fear and Roland smiled a satisfied grin, his mouth and teeth dripping blood.

“Well brother, it has been a wonderful hunt.” he said. “I merely wish to inform you that this head shall sleep with me tonight, to watch out for any more attempts. God knows your house has not been safe to me lately. Be reassured though, my sword is sharp and it will be my pleasure to rid you of your threats. You and your family can sleep tight.” his menace was almost imperceptible.

He turned around to face the throng and gave a grin. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I bid you goodnight! This feast has filled my stomach and I am afraid I need some rest! But please, please, do feast more.” he gave a look at his seat that he had left blood-soaked, at Constance, clenching her fists while closing her eyes, to Godfrey, shaking with fear or anger, the line between those feelings a thin one. He glanced at the crowd, the large hall in which he had listened to her mother tell him of the mighty Roland, that fair knight from the songs who fought fairly and valiantly. So much for the respect due to such a name.

Roland sighed, exhausted and walked up to his room, taking his sword with him and closed his door, threw the head away, threw himself on his bed and cried, shook, cried and sobbed some more, consuming in his own hell, wallowing in emptiness, thinking of Ide, excited to see her, disgusted by what he was. He cried and shook and hummed her songs, desperate for her, as always, recreating so imperfectly her perfect presence. He dozed off to sleep and soaked his bedsheets with blood and tears and sweat, dreaming of her.

In his dreams her face was agony incarnate, and she consumed in fire.

 

They set the place of execution in front of the church, yet another reminder of the strength of men of God. The throng gathered here and Samar stood over them all, covered with her own blood, showing pride and contempt even after the townsfolk threw stones and rotten things at her. In her eyes burned a cold anger that threatened them all.

They gave her rags to wear in the cold as snow fell. They had prepared gallows from which a rope dangled, the knot set loose, ready to snap Samar's throat.

Ide stood behind them all, hidden behind a stall, while Joseph and Peter glowered up front. A hand pressed her shoulder and Ide snapped, startled, about to panic.

“What are you doing here.” Mary whispered with hurry.

“I needed to come.” said Ide once her heart slowed down. “Not for me but for her. She sacrificed herself for me.”

“If they find you, all will be lost and her sacrifice will be useless.”

“How can I turn away after what she did?” Ide cried. “I must see it. I must. Even if it kills me.”

“Why? Why inflict more pain to your heart?” Mary's voice was sad.

“To feel it. To revel in it. Sometimes, sadness is as good a feeling to feel alive.”

“Yours is a sad mind.” Mary muttered in tears.

Ide gave half a smile.

The prior stood in front of the stage they planned on executing Samar. “My brother and sisters we are gathered here today to witness God's ultimate justice to us, His people! The witch shall be tried and it is up to God and only God to give his judgment!” the crowd listened, entrance, lost in fury, relishing madness as if it was truth. “For I say that if the witch is dead, God has turned His back on her and he refused to save such a dark twisted soul, but if she remains alive, then God deems her a good soul! Let God decide!”

“Let God decide!” chanted the crowd. “Hang the witch!” others roared. It was all a furious thunder, a roar barely human. “Kill her!”

Samar stepped forward. “You pigs! You stinky filthy pigs! I am glad to die, for none of you deserve me! To tell I helped deliver you wretched swine offspring! To tell I used to heal your ungrateful selves! To tell I gave you everything I was and knew! You never deserved it! You deserved to die at birth! You deserve to burn! All of you! A rain of fire shall seek you all charred and may plagues and pestilence fall upon you! It is all you deserve in this muddy shithole! Your crime of of your sin and may you all burn in Hell! Hereby I proclaim that the sky, the forest, everything you sought dead survive to spite your every endeavor!” her eyes wandered to Ide and she locked her sight on her, a warmth in them equal to a gentle embrace and for the first time she faltered. “For I say this, as my last words: I will live on. Run you fools.” a single tear trickled down her cheek.

The prior nodded to Peter who slid the knot on her throat. Samar glowered, mightier than ever. Peter sought her eyes to rattle her will but nothing could do. Samar was too old to be frightened anymore.

“By God! For justice, for peace, for good, you shall be tried.” calmly said the prior.

Samar spat at his feet. “Try me, bitch.”

The prior smiled and his smile faded to leave place for an anger so violent it made his whole face quiver. He brought his hand down and the stage opened and Samar fell.

The cracking of her neck was the worst, not the sight of an old woman dangling in the air. She gargled and seemed reluctant to die, until – until her eyes lost their life, until she was still and dead.

Ide concealed a howl as she began crying and sobbing. Mary gently took her away, herself, weeping in silence.

“Ide.. Ide you mustn't stay here. They'll kill you.” Mary said with all the desperation in the world.

Ide nodded. “Goodbye then, I guess.”

Mary gave her a look full of tenderness and hugged her tight. “Oh, Ide. I am so sorry.”

“Goodbye. I will leave tonight, wander to other tides.” she said.

“Ide, you know you can always come live with us in Caen.”

Ide smiled – smile without joy. “I am afraid I will be too far for that.”

“Then take care of yourself.” Mary said with a kiss on her forehead. “Promise me you will let me know about your health from time to time. Promise me you won't drown yourself in ale.”

Ide held both her hands. “Farewell, Mary. Never forget that I love you and,” she sighed. “I am sorry – for everything.”

“No need to apologize. Go, now. I will see that no one follows you.”

Ide smiled and ran away under the cover of snow falling harder, her limbs frozen and painful, her heart aching about to burst into flames, her womb a gaping wound. Samar was dead. Night was dead. She brought death all around. With Mary and Mahaut gone, nothing binded her to this earth anymore. She took her decision the night everything burned.

When she said her farewell to Mary, she had already resolved to die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this sad and graphic chapter. I promise the next is gonna be sweeter. (also I discovered that Ide x Roland fluff was good and perhaps one day I'll show you how they can be when they're not surrouned by psychopaths). Sorry about Samar, sorry about Night, sorry about Roland.... The boy doesn't know how to behave. Killing someone with a table-knife.... boy the dude must have lost all of his blood before his head was even cut off. I'll have to ground him. Samar's slap to Ide was also me though because the girl needs to get off her bullshit for good! Ugh! I can't wait to give her happiness.  
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. Don't hesitate to comment.


	15. I love you

 

 

Roland nonchalantly sharpened his sword in the hall when the sun rose. His eyes were red and puffy from all the weeping and nightmares and a glass of wine taunted him on the table near the spot he had placed his feet on. He was already dressed in his crusader attire – the only thing left of his belongings for now – and over his mail, he had pulled on a tunic that reached his knees.

He sharpened the blade again and again, shuddering from time to time. He still saw the red of his wanna-be assassin on the table. Roland closed his eyes and pressed them to erase the memory and the aftermath he felt brewing. He came close to those dark tides; those that made him want to die and choke on his own tongue. There was no forgiveness for what he did, but killing so many men had made death sound almost trivial and Roland hated himself for it. The bells of the chapel rang for mass and Roland knelt to pray, begging to see Ide again; hoping to wake up to her face every morning until the day he would die.

Stephen arrived later in the morning and Roland headed to a door under the open hallway above. He called for his brother and waited in a long narrow room lined left with windows and covered with tapestries on its opposite wall, adorned with a massive fireplace backing two high chairs of wood facing a larger table covered with old manuscripts and parchments and ink and daggers. The stone floor was, instead of reeds, covered with bear skins.

“Ostentatious.” Roland murmured.

Godfrey entered the room wearing his finest silks, his tunic reaching his ankles and a cape wrapped around his shoulders and neck. He worse a rich belt on which he had tied a richer dagger and had adorned his fingers with rings of gold and diamonds. He wore as usual his narrow leather hunting boots. Constance followed, haughty, her long braided hair hidden under her veil that was tied to her head with a circlet of silver. Her dress itself was that of a queen and herself had covered her neck and fingers with jewels. Vanity was their attire; one that made them seem rich and important.

“You summoned me, brother?” Godfrey's voice was cold. “This better be important. You see, I have much to take care of.” he offered Constance a hand and helped her sit on her chair with devoted eyes. It was the same Roland had when he looked at Ide. “Stephen,” he nodded to his sheriff. “Last night's incident must be looked through. You shall see to it.”

Stephen bowed reluctantly. “As you command my lord.”

“No need of it.” Said Roland with a joyless smile. “I'll be gone tomorrow with any luck and you shall never hear of me again.”

“But – you were attacked.” Godfrey stuttered. “This deserves at least an investigation. Say, stay until this is all seen through.”

“Your investigation will either bring me death or that of Stephen.” Roland said. “No, I have much better to offer your consideration. I leave, and in compensation you shall remain harmless. You'll give me back my horse and riches, naturally.”

Godfrey's face hardened and lost its smile. “Harmless? Come, come, brother. Why the menace?” he asked something to a servant.

Roland's hand gripped the handle of his sword. “You will keep the servant in the room. Those you seek to protect you will all die if you call for them.” he said, his voice as brutal as a punch in the jaw. “God knows I could sever some heads more.”

“Would you, now?” Godfrey's voice grew hard. “Well, Constance told me what a monster you have become. It comes as no surprise.”

Roland scoffed and Stephen shifted nervously beside him. “Oh, I have much to repent myself from. Past slaughters, future ones, but you!” he pointed to his brother. “You are the most despicable of us both. Your own brother! That same brother you played with! That same brother you taught hunting to! That same brother you used to comfort when a thunderstorm struck! Who to be judged the hardest? The man versed in warfare, or the one hunting down his own kin? We both know God does not shine a bright light upon us but at least I am aware of my heinous nature.”

“Accusation without proof is a dangerous errand, brother.” Godfrey's voice was calm and menacing. “Are you certain you wish to go down that road?” he glanced at Stephen. “Say, Stephen you are the man of law, here, what can you say about this?”

Stephen cleared his throat. “I say and deduced through my investigation that those seeking Roland dead were hired by someone. Oddly, all men who tried to murder your brother were of your house. All clues lead to the manor.” his voice was cautious.

Roland gave him a thankful smile and stepped forward. “Say, Godfrey, I noticed a fine horse in the stables; a horse much alike those I rode in Syria. A horse strangely similar to mine. I saw another that belonged to my late squire. What to make of it?”

Godfrey blanched. He pulled himself together and brushed the remark aside with his hand. “That would be a coincidence. A merchant came by last year and sold it to us.”

Roland chuckled. “And you believe those lies? You would have bought ten of those, Godfrey! By the way, did you check the mark on its back? Livestocks always get marked not to mistake one for the other.”

Godfrey paled yet again. Roland gave another smile while Constance was all glowering and scorns.

“This is ludicrous!” she said. “Accusing my husband of such a sin! I will not bear the outrage!” she stood up.

“Oh, sit down, you traitor! You outraged and insulted me once! Can't I repay the insult?” Roland shook his head. “No. Actually, both of you betrayed me through and through and sought my death. Oh you were close when your men left me for dead in the forest. Then what, they came back and some died and the rest of them you sent them again?” Roland sighed. “The fat one died first, sliced from stomach to forehead in a cabin full of ale. The other, the one-eyed man died next. I stabbed him in the throat... Then, there is that other one.” he smiled satisfaction as he saw Godfrey's complexion turn red with anger. “Lean, slander, rather pretty with a sly smile, a honeyed voice, tall, behaving like a snake in rich silks. A man much like you, brother.” he gave a grin as he saw Godfrey grip his arm-chairs. “I killed him too. You shall never find their bodies.” he laughed. “Devoured by wolves! Who would have believed such a tale among those you informed of your dark project? My, brother, you must have lived in constant anxiety. It relieves me a little.”

Godfrey stood up. “You!” he seethed. “They were my friends! You killed them! You couldn't bother to die huh? I should have done the work myself instead of hiring those worthless worms to do the job! At least your messenger had the decency to die a quick death!”

Stephen gasped, repelled and appalled Constance jumped to her feet, horrified.

“Husband!” she yelled. “Don't say another word! Not with him,” she jerked her face to Stephen. “as a listener.”

“I should have poisoned him like you said.” Godfrey said staring down at Roland.

Roland snorted and waved at Constance laughing in high spirits. “Oh, so she was into the secret!” he clapped. “Wonderful! Wonderful! You two are truly a match set in Hell! Oh you fit each other so well!” Godfrey glowered on his seat. “I wonder who ordered what, though? Can you help? Oh! I know! Constance told men to come at me and kill me! She used poison I am sure of that! She ordered my saddle to be cut short and that stone to fall on me! Oh that is so Constance! Traps and backstabbing bitch! You, Godfrey, I am certain that it was you who gave me chase through your minions! You do love your hunting parties!” Roland cut short to his laughter. “To tell evil dwelt in the manor all this time.”

Godfrey turned to his brother, his eyes cold end somber. “And what choice did I have? You survived! If only you had died like intended all would have been for the best!”

“The best?” Roland growled while Stephen stiffened. “You kept my father's death from my knowledge! You made mother think I was dead! You erased me!”

“My husband did what he could to preserve his domain's prosperity! I helped further his endeavor in that manner! You threatened it all! All we have worked for! Everything we ever achieved in this wretched land! You would have ravaged it all! You would have split those lands we have tried to unify for so long between bastards! You would have beaten me to death! You would have been a monster as I know you are!” Constance seethed.

“Prosperity?” Roland scoffed. “I have seen your fief, brother! I saw no prosperity but people dying in ignorance, eating their own shit! What I saw was so far from a prosperous domain! You left fields to the mercy of raiders! You left thieves roam your lands! You let churches burn! You let farm go derelict! I left a rich domain! I returned to witness misery!” he scowled. “Father would be ashamed.”

“Do not talk about father!” Godfrey yelled. “You don't know about how hard it was to care for him in his last year! You don't know anything about it!”

Roland scoffed. “What, you killed him too?”

“I would never.” Godfrey said, sincerely hurt.

“Then why did you want me dead?” asked Roland, beseeching.

Godfrey sighed. “I have been named heir to lands in England. I was afraid you would have come claiming them as I knew you would. I didn't want you back to claim this and my wife. You would have been bad for her. Your children would have been unwanted from her part. Constance deserves better than a life waiting for a drunkard to come back blood-soaked. She deserves better than cruelty.”

“Who said I would have been cruel?” Roland's heart shattered as the extent of this truth sprang up with Ide's face. He shook his head and scoffed. “Keep your insufferable treacherous bitch with you! That mare will breed you sons and daughters soon enough. You'll discard them away soon anyway!”

“Discard?” Godfrey's voice grew hard. “I love my children, brother, more than anything. I love my wife more than I should! No riches will ever trump them all! Make no mistake though, I shan't let you leave and risk losing my domain.”

Roland yawled. “Keep your fallow knobby wretched fields stuffed with shit! Keep your shithole of towns! Keep that priory and those bastard monks! Keep your shit and keep your poor excuse of wealth! I have my own in a sunnier place where I shall grow vineyards, trade, make wine and dine with kings from across the world and war for my king. Keep your bitch of a wife whose face never shifts and whose charms are none! Keep it all! Keep your inheritance for yourself! I have better and if you try to grasp it I shall kill you like I can. I don't want to live here anyway! Live for what? Be a second son? Be poor? Lose my pride and fight for petty wars between dukes and kings?” he sulked. “I don't care for that land! I don't care our forefathers fought for it! I don't care for a world in which I don't belong! I fought for my own and I'm taking Ide away from this cursed piece of mud!”

Godfrey scoffed. “What is even an Ide?”

Roland stood tall and held his head high with pride. “My future wife. Nothing binds me here anymore. She shall be my haven and I'll relieve her from your tidings.”

Constance looked down at him with contempt. “This bride of yours, you made her up!”

Roland smiled. “Oh no. You see, Ide healed me when you sought me dead, killed a man of yours and continues to be a balm to my heart. Ide is a healer, a brewer and a fantastic woman. She is God-sent.”

“Oh, good! A commoner! A pauper! Why congratulations Roland, you found your match!” Constance mocked.

“It's still better than a lying cunt.” Roland said. Stephen snorted. Roland turned to Godfrey. “You will give me my horses back. You will return my riches – those I brought for you, you shall keep it – and you will leave me alone as well as my bride or else I shall slaughter your sons in their sleep before I thrust my blade in your guts.”

Godfrey stood back, agape. “They're your nephews.” that sin alone made him blemish.

“I am your brother and you sought to kill me. That's compensation.”

“You shall not touch a hair of their head.” Constance raged. “If you do, I guarantee you that you shall not be relieved of me ever! I will seek alliances and wage war against you and burn everything you cherish to the ground!”

“Swear, then; swear on their heads that you shall do me no harm and give me back that wealth you so unjustly took from me.” Roland shook with a restrained anger.

“Roland, if you touch them I...” Godfrey warned.

“SWEAR IT!” Roland roared, sticking the blade of his dagger deep into the solid oak wood of the table behind him.

Godfrey bit his lips in anger. He had never looked so raging, so furious, so fierce in his entire life. “This is preposterous!” he muttered. “Fine! I swear!”

Roland stepped forward again. His face was facing his brother's, he was so close he could feel his breath. “Good. You have one full day. Then...” he took the dagger from the table as if it had been stuck in butter. “You know what happens.” he waved the dagger around, menacing in his knowledge.

Godfrey raged. “Will you kill me?” he asked, gulping.

Roland chuckled. “And soil my steel with your blood? No. If I had to kill every single man who ever tried to kill m, I would have turned a sea blood. Sometimes, brother, one must walk past things.” he gave him a menacing haunting look. “For one's own peace. Make no mistake, though: I won't hesitate to make my threats true. If you try me, your children will either die or be sold as slaves in countries you shall never venture in.”

Roland gave his brother and Constance a last look full of contempt to match their fear and hatred. He swore to himself to keep a blade at all hours. One could never be too cautious. He stopped by Stephen.

“My offer still stands.” he said. “If you ever decide to settle to warmer tides, I'm here.”

Stephen glared at his current masters sitting on their feeble thrones. “I am starting to consider it seriously.” he growled.

Roland gave a smile that looked like a spasm. He pressed Stephen's shoulder and nodded, breathing with care to keep his fury at bay, thinking that he might see Ide again; that his dream of marriage would come true.

“Stephen!” seethed Godfrey. “I forbid it!”

“We'll wait until Rosamund has delivered. Then, we'll leave.” sad Stephen to Roland.

“We are your lord and lady! You abide by us!” Godfrey said loud enough.

“In regard of your crimes, I suppose I'll have to refer to the duke of the king to shift my service. Well, let's see who wins their petty war first, huh? Wouldn't be the first brothers to be fighting over lands.”

Roland scoffed.

“You were a witness to Roland's anger. You saw him murder men in cold blood. You saw him threaten our children!” Constance said. “This deserves at least a trial!”

Stephen glanced at Roland and squinted. “His threats will be nothing if you do what he asks. Besides he always killed in self-defense. I say that no matter how barbaric and abhorrent his demeanor has been, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Not to mention that he does not abide by our duke's law, no matter that he fought with him and under his command for so long.” Stephen took his uptight stance; that of a judge. “I say he can walk free provided no harm is done to your children.”

He gave Roland a stern look and Roland nodded.

“They're good enough children.” said Roland. “Perhaps one day I'll give them cousins.”

Constance scowled. “I shall never allow them to play with mine. I don't want them soiled.”

Roland shook with anger. “Funny. I was about to say the same.” he turned to Godfrey. “Keep your second-hand shits Godfrey. You have one day.”

Then, opening the door and followed by Stephen, Roland left the room and outraged masters. Jealousy often led to mean things, troubling perception, disfiguring reality as it is; and jealousy had his way into Godfrey’s mind, and in the end paranoia conquered him, consuming every shred of reason he had left, covering even his love for his younger brother whom he had loved so much and cherished when he was young; and Godfrey went mad.

Roland leaned against the wall as the door closed behind him. He sighed and feverishly sheathed his dagger while adjusting his belt. He tugged on his tunic and gripped his mail, then his hands, crossed his arms to contain his shaking and he closed his eyes as fear and anger roamed him like a violent storm. Stephen attempted to touch him but Roland discarded his hand whispering that he was fine.

He spent the rest of the day drinking, walking to and fro, sharpening his sword some more, playing with Stephen's children and teaching his nephews some move while Constance watched over them like a lioness about to devour another predator. Roland glanced at her from time to time and with a smirk, waved his hand as a threat.

At night, he soaked his bed with sweat and twisted and turned in his bedsheets, troubled with nightmares, hardly sleeping, whimpering, wincing and whining. It felt cold in the room, even with a fire crackling in the fireplace. It was cold and hot and when he wasn't drowning, Roland was burning. The demons danced and danced and danced and Roland screamed his fear away and woke up long before dawn, sitting by his window, eager for sweet warm nights with Ide in his bed.

 

Stephen insisted on joining him on his way to the forest. He rode his own horse while Roland mounted his own, followed by that of his squire, carrying his wealth Godfrey had given back with a great deal of regrets. Roland had been kind enough to let his brother keep the gifts he had brought back for his mother, sisters and brothers though. He was as rich as ever: his cape hung loosely on his horse's back, he was wearing his mail and a rich tunic, he trimmed his beard short and let his flaxen hair flow in the wind, while he counted in his head all his treasures, wondering what would suit Ide's eyes best. A necklace encrusted with diamonds would do well.

When he left, it was without ceremony on behalf of the manor and its retainers; but he made a show out of it and had tried to display as much grandeur as he could given his newly-found status. He had sent a messenger to his mother with gifts and had entrusted him to bring his sister an account of the extent of his gifts to them.

He left without regret. There was no place for him where he was born. It was a long shot and a most perilous choice, but he needed to dwell in war some more. That hole he had been engulfed in had become home. He needed war but he needed peace. There was no way to reconcile those two things in Normandy; in Syria, everything was possible. There, he had a place and he had connection and soon he would have family. For a man who had destroyed so much, he longed to build now; even if it meant sacrificing pieces of his redemption through steel and war.

Roland gave a look around. “So many charred old farms.” he said. “Why would my brother forsake what my father build for so long? Why would he turn his back on our forefather's realm and why no one seems aware of my father's death? Why would Godfrey made his land miserable if he craved riches?”

Stephen gave him a look from below – his horse was much smaller than that of his friend. “I don't know.” he confessed.

“How did he gather enough money to build his castle anyway?” Roland scoffed.

“On that I have a theory.” said Stephen. “I deduced that he lent the money to the monks – with interests of course. The priory would have accepted and did whatever they could to insure Godfrey would get a lot of money only to have it back afterwards, maiming merchants, selling as much as they could, becoming the sole source of trade in this part of Normandy... Then, you returned and Godfrey saw in it a chance to get more money for himself.”

Roland sniffed. “Yes. Kill your concurrents, that seems like something the priory would do.” his voice grew bitter and his gloved hands gripped the reins tighter.

“As for your father,” continued Stephen. “I believe Godfrey was ashamed of how he ruled his lands – he has always preferred politics, money and hunting parties to proper administration anyway. He may have thought it was better to blame a dead man for it.”

Roland shook his head. “No. Godfrey adored our father. I think the pain was too much for him to bear and telling it, announcing it was admitting father died. You buried him. How was the ceremony?”

“We were few. It was in the chapel and the ceremony was held by the manor's priest and only his family attended the funeral, including his brother and nephews and nieces.” Stephen said. “It was private and remained private. It wasn't up to me to declare his death. It was Godfrey's.”

Roland gulped and nodded. “I would have at least wanted to be informed of his death. This brings me much sorrow that my father couldn't see the man I've become.” Roland wiped off a tear. “I have always wanted him to make him proud. I wanted to be worthy in his eyes.”

“Your father was proud, I am sure of that.” Stephen said. “Sure he preferred Godfrey and your sisters over you but your mother loved you thrice more in compensation. Besides, you have better friends than your brother.”

Roland laughed. “Yes! Handsomer too. Look at you, all dressed up and uptight! No wonder Rosamund is so enamored with you! See your eyes? Boy, she must drown in them.”

Stephen laughed. “Aye! I am handsome! But look at you Roland, dressed as if it were your wedding!”

Roland grew soft. “That is because it is. Today I'll come and claim my bride, even if I have to battle an army for that.”

Stephen laughed. “Oh you are so romantic!”

Roland chuckled then sighed. “It pains me though, to see that Godfrey lets all this,” he motioned his hand around. “To waste. What is he going to do with his inheritance in England? Let it burn like here? Let it be trampled by armies marching against the other? Let other barons come and claim it? Let it be ruled by a priory while he sets himself in London at king Henry's court?”

“You seem certain that Henry will win against Robert. Why would you not take your mentor's side?” asked Stephen.

“Henry is king. He's got the support of many lords and England is wider than Normandy anyway. He's got his father's doomsday book so I doubt he knows not his resources. Robert just got back from crusade. There is a lot he doesn't know. He doesn't know the terrain as well as the king, he doesn't have the full support of his subjects, he does not know England. He knows war but war isn't everything.”

“What drives brothers to take their brother's crown?”

“Greed.” Roland said. “We cannot escape how full of faults we are. We are humans, that is all.”

“Rumor has it that your Baldwin killed his brother Godfrey to take his throne.”

Roland scoffed. “No. That is untrue. Godfrey was poisoned but some think he died of illness. It was the day I left. Baldwin took his place, strengthened by his position of count of Edesse and his marriage to an Armenian princess. He played the game wisely. His princess if a Christian and he made sure he was to inherit from her father. Contracting alliances is a game fit for a king. Now, his kingdom is as big as ever. No matter how much I admired Godfrey the Northerner, I will be happy to pledge for Baldwin. Besides, Baldwin had a county worth a kingdom aside from his royal wedding. Baldwin would never had killed Godfrey.”

“What if he gave your lands to someone else?” asked Stephen.

Roland smiled. “I left a troop there to take care of business and sent him a letter when I reached Agues-Mortes. He will do nothing of the sort.”

“It seems to me that you are leaving a war for another.”

“That is the way of the world, Stephen. That and gold.” Roland sighed. “It is nothing that can be helped.”

“That's a grim world.”

“Grim but not dull. All it takes it a few people to love, a few melodies to hum, honey, joy, laughter, food and a good night of sleep tugged between pillows and all seems better.” Roland gave a smile as he approached the walls of the town. “You see, all it takes is a connection to someone, to the world you live in and your home seems a little brighter.”

“You seem awfully optimist today.” said Stephen with a squint. “Any particular reason for that lightness of mood?”

Roland laughed as they passed a cross indicating they had entered the perimeter of the village. “I'll see my beautiful bride today and I'll take her on a horse and I'll kiss her and tell her of my love and devotion and I will kiss her again until my lips are sore. I'll hear her voice again, smell her scent again, feel her presence again. This alone gives me hope for a century.” his smile grew softer. “My bride! Oh I can't wait for you to meet my bride.”

Roland suddenly grew queasy as they approached the town. It was quiet, way too quiet for a town as large as this one. When he passed the inn, no one was there. He knew Mahaut had left after she married – he had heard of it being a splendid feast – but it was unusual for a man such as Joseph not to try and get travelers inside. Roland squinted the further they rode into the town.

“Weird.” said Stephen.

Roland gulped and nodded, his hand on his sword. At war, atmosphere like that betokened only of death. All his senses seemed to suddenly reach all around him, trying to catch a glimpse, a scent, a smell, but none came until they reached the church. Gallows were laid there, half put down in the snowy mud. A woman scraped off patches of blood while two children played near a cart filled with belongings. Roland recognized her to be Mary, Ide's sister. His heart skipped a beat. This omen was no good. He could almost see Ide hung on that rope and suddenly caught his breath, the boulder on his chest adding to his panic.

He kept a hold of himself, hardly controlling his fear, his anguish, his terror that she was dead, the void she would left an agony. He couldn't live without her. He couldn't love without her.

Shaking, he came by Mary, gripping his cloak lined with fur as tightly as her could in order not to lose himself. “Woman.” he said, his voice hardly a whisper.

Mary startled and stood up, eyes red and puffy as though she was crying. Roland gagged and gulped it away. He could already feel tears rushing up to his eyes. Stephen pressed his hand on his shoulder which brought Roland back to his questions.

“What happened here?” he croaked, dreading the answer.

Mary frowned. “I know you. You're the errand who came by a few weeks ago.”

Roland nodded. “What happened here?” he almost choked on his words.

She gave a look around. “Don't you know? A witch has been hanged.”

“A – a witch.” he stammered, out of breath.

“They wanted to hang my sister, but they took an old woman instead. Samar. She was a Saracen and lived into the woods and was,” Mary gave a sharp breath and a few tears. “She was like family. I am sorry – you – you probably don't like Saracens.” she stuttered. “You know... Crusade.”

Roland gave a breath of relief. He let his hand linger over his eyes for a while, gulped and nodded all while sobbing. So Samar was dead and Ide's house had been reached. She wasn't safe anymore. She could have fled God knew where and Roland would never find her. He wasn't prepared for that eventuality, just as he had not been prepared for what had arisen. The fleeting moment he thought Ide was dead had seemed like an eternity.

Stephen squinted at Roland, careful about his shakes. Mary looked at him also. “Pray, woman, has there not been any trial?” asked Stephen.

“No. The monks of the priory condemned her as soon as they decided they would hang her in my sister's place.” said Mary.

Stephen gave Roland a look. He bent his back, and shook and Stephen understood his need to be alone. “Do you mind telling me what happened over there?” he motioned towards the cart.

Mary nodded and wiped off a tear and followed him while her children still ran around.

“Oh, Samar, you cunning old crone.” Roland sobbed. “To tell I was about to ask you to come with us in Syria. You'd have watched over my children, and,” he looked at Mary's. “They could have played with their cousins, but now it has all gone to waste and it is my fault. You must have hated me; hated what I did to her.” he sighed. “I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and protected you both. Those monks – it's terrible what they did to you. I swear,” his voice grew threatening. “That they shall pay a hundredfold.” he gave a sharp breath. “I'll find her. I'll make amends and redeem myself from my wrongs. I'll keep going down the path of redemption, though I know there is no atonement for what I did, but I'll try and live by how you would perceive me. I know you died hating me, but know that I bore for you no hate.” Roland sighed and shad a single final tear. “Wa alaykum salam, Samar. May your memory live on. May you never fade.” he swore to mourn her properly, wherever she went after she died.

He walked back where Mary spoke to Stephen. Stephen looked scandalized and paced to and fro, fulminating.

“It is scandalous that I, a man of law has not been summoned for a fair trial! It is most unjust and against everything the law dictates! I demand justice! I'll demand that the monks answer for it! This is a personal insult!” Stephen yowled. He was never handsomer than when he raged. “I can't believe it! No fair trial!”

“They didn't want a fair trial.” Roland said, his voice as harsh as steel. He grasped the handle of his sword. “They wanted Ide dead and thought they could get away with it because this shitty town adores them and hates Ide.” Mary started. “They've beaten her on multiple occasion for less than an insult and now I have no doubt that those turds will seek away to end her once and for all.”

“You – you know my sister?” Mary stammered, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Wait,” Stephen's eyes grew narrow. “She is Ide's sister? Your Ide? Your healer? Your bride?” Roland nodded. “Why, Roland if your woman is as beautiful as her sister, you are a lucky man.”

“Bride?” Mary was astonished. “What do you mean, 'bride'? What do you mean 'your healer'? Who are you and how are you so familiarly acquainted with my sister?” a soft menace echoed in her words, fear that harm would be done to Ide again.

Roland shook his head. “It's – It's complicated.” he stammered.

“Then explain!” Mary was gritty. Ide told about her soft character but she obviously spared details about her fierceness.

“I – I – She found me half dead in the woods and healed me ever since and I have spent a summer with her.” said Roland, dreading Mary's disapproval. “I love her.”

“I knew it! I knew she hid me something. Oh, Ide, what has gotten into you? Oh my, Ide...”

“She thought that saving me she would prove the monks and all those daft donkeys in the village wrong.” Roland confessed. “But it is nothing to be helped. The monks are far too powerful. They have the full support of the Church and that of our dukes and barons. Ide is doomed if she stays here.”

“So what? Have you come to finish the job?” Mary seethed.

Roland stepped forward, his eyes burning with rage. “I would rather die a hundred death than see her as much as suffer.” he grew mournful. “I have made her suffer.”

“Who are you?” asked Mary, squinting.

Stephen stepped forward. “He is Roland, second son of the late baron William, himself son of William who fought besides William the bastard in Val ès Dune and Hastings.”

Roland kept him from saying more with his hand. “I fought in crusade beside Robert Curthose, Baldwin of Edesse and Godfrey of Bouillon. My sword can testify of that. I own lands in Syria where I shall take your sister, where I shall marry her, where I shall attempt to make her as happy as I can. I love her.”

Mary scoffed. “Ide is never happy.”

Roland gave a long sigh. “She drinks too much for that. Now, do you know where she is? I am much eager to come back to her. You are welcome to join us, of course. You and your family will fare well in my lands. Your husband may be of great use.”

Mary smiled and shook her head. “No, my lord. My husband is too far engulfed in his own views upon my sister to as much as breathe the same air as she does. He will refuse and I must follow my husband as is my duty, though it pains me to be kept away from her. It would have been a most splendid life, I confess. Perhaps when our odds are more convenient.”

Roland nodded, his heart still racing in his ribcage. “Where is she?” anguish reeked in his voice.

“Away, I suppose.” said Mary. “Although, what she said to me when she left the execution was unclear...”

Roland felt the world spin around him as panic shortly took over. “What?” he gargled. He knew what she was about to say. He knew Ide too well. That damn woman! Oh that damn woman and her messed up head. That damn beautiful woman drowning in excess! She better not to – she better stay put and wait for him – she better not to or he swore to God he would...

“She bid me good bye. She said she would be too far away for me to reach and...” she gave a sob. “Ide.” she choked. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh Lord Almighty I beg you, not that. Not that!”

“Roland!” Stephen's voice screamed hurry.

Roland's hands shook as he rushed to his horse. He hopped on it and spurred it on, galloping while Stephen comforted Mary, fallen on the ground, crying out all of her tears.

His whole thoughts ran as fast as his horse and he couldn't help imagining the worst. And what did he expect? For things to go easily? For her not to be damaged? For her to be safe and sound? What did he imagined? That she would stay put waiting for him when she had had no clue he would come back? What did he imagine? That his actions would bear no ill aftermaths? Roland cursed himself for his foolishness, for his arrogance, for his entitlement. He cursed himself as familiar paths and trees passed along his eyes.

He spotted a procession up front and reduced his horse's pace. The closer he got to them, the better he could see the townsfolk led by monks with gray robes and a priest, bearing a self-righteous face. They were all armed with whatever weapons they had and seemed determined on killing.

Anger rumbled in his core, threatening to burst out in patches of blood spattered across the path to Ide's house. He knew why they had come. He knew and it was intolerable. He reached the leaders of the procession and as he did, the paupers turned around, gazing at his velvet cloak, his gloves, his mail, his tunic and his sword; the rich allure of a rich crusader. He dismounted and the priest gave an ecstatic grin.

“My lord! My lord!” he cried. “You came back mightier I see!” he turned to the prior. “See, how righteous you are father, that such a man came to our aid in our endeavor to end evil here! See! A crusader has come to ensure your ultimate victory! God is on our side!” he turned toward his flock. “God is on our side!”

Roland let go of his anger and gripped the priest by his collar. “Shut up you madman!” he seethed, his eyes, two raging fires.

“Why, my lord, release this man of God at once.” ordered the prior. “Come, come, a man devoting his steel to God must surely wish to kill a witch.”

Roland stepped towards him. “Aye, I devote my steel to God; but make no mistake, in crusade I fought for wealth and land and pride! I shall not kill innocents again! This witch that you are so eager to destroy is under my protection!”

The prior gave a cold wrathful face that colored his bulky fat face with red. “A witch? Under your protection? You must be out of your mind!”

“The witch would have bedeviled him.” said the priest. “Come, come, my lord. Pray, join us for God and His glorious design.”

Roland scoffed, angrier every second they kept him away from her. “Bedeviled? Do not presume I don't have all my sanity! Not like you all here, blinded and mad at a woman who has done nothing to you!”

“She ate our children and seduced our husband!” screamed a woman.

“We are not safe so long as she lives!” cried another.

Roland saw Joseph and Peter in the throng: the former seemed full of guilt, the other full of wrath. Roland held his head high. “To you I say this! I say that those men of God fooled you! Go back from whence you came before it is too late!” he looked at Peter. “Go back to your wife and children and leave this cursed piece of mud! Let it die under words! Let its misery reek and rot! Go back and you shall remain harmless!”

His words had rattled the throng enough and a few began to fear for they safety. Roland gave a grunt and unsheathed his sword.

“Ide has done nothing to you that I did not do a hundred times already. Why should she be held accountable and not I?”

“She threatens God.” said the prior.

“No. She threatens you! You are no men of God! You have forsaken Him to turn to a gilded one! You turn to Him for excuses while the blame is all yours! You pretend to be men of God but the cold hard truth is that you are just as humans as we are! You are no saints. Demons lies in yourself and you ought to chase them before seeking to chase them in others!” Roland said out loud.

“How dare you!” the prior stepped forward and tried to slap him but with his sheath, Roland struck his calves and brought him into the snowy mud. “How dare you apostate?” the prior fulminated while panicked monks brought him up with a great deals of laments. “I am a man of God! I am the Church!”

Roland gave a grim laugh. “Not my Church, not my God. If Christ were here as a witness, He would be covered with shame. If there is an apostate here, it is you, all of you, who turned your backs on Him.”

“And who are you, so righteous in your false claims?” spat the prior while the priest reddened.

“Roland, brother to Godfrey and son of William, late baron of those lands.” Roland said. He leaned to the prior's ear. “If you think I know not of your dealings with my brother, you are mistaken.” he whispered.

“If you don't plan on helping us get rid of evil, then step aside!” cried a small monk.

Roland considered his weak figure and gave a grin. “No.” he said. “I'll go to her and take her away.”

“What makes you think you can do it and not suffer the consequences? God will punish you!” cried the prior.

Roland laughed it off. “Oh, trust me, father, God is already punishing me. Now, go back from whence you came before I kill and damage you all enough to let you know what I did in His name.” blood-lust reeked in his words.

“You wouldn't do that to Christians.” stammered the priest.

Roland waved his blade around. “I would if it meant keeping her safe. Men of God or not, I will kill you, sever your heads and turn this forest red if you don't back away!”

“You wouldn't dare!” seethed the prior.

Roland gave a grin. He grabbed a monk by his cloak and put his blade on his throat. “Try me.” he growled. “When I am done with this one, perhaps I'll cut some arms and some head among your flock.” Roland breathed like an animal. “I'll start with the inn tender over there, and then I'll slit the blacksmith's throat. Perhaps I'll hang a few women here and there and feed them to the crows. You would be amazed what men can do in the name of God.” The townsfolk stepped back in horror. “Now go before I bathe in your blood!” he began a cut on the monk's throat. “Go!” he roared. “Go or you are all dead you insufferable pieces of mud! You sinners! You monsters! Go before I kill your wretched lot!”

He had the satisfaction to see them all running. He threw the monk to the ground and stepped forward, his sword dripping a thin trickle of blood. The procession of monks darted off, back to the priory, the town, wherever they could, to avoid Roland. He didn't care. Let them be afraid. He would at least get some peace in the village where he would take Ide back and gather his treasure. Let them serve him with fear.

“You will pay for this! I'll refer to the Pope!” the prior yelled.

Roland grinned. He had the protection of kings and queens. He didn't fear a prior barely able to stand on his feet. He watched them all stagger back from whence they came and sighed with satisfaction, seeing how they ran like headless chickens. He wiped off the blood on his sword against the moss, desiring not to soil himself with it. He hopped on his horse, and rushed to Ide's house, hoping not to come too late.

Roland's blood iced in his veins as he saw the charred clearing, the pile of blacken wood where was Ide's house once, the lack of hives, of cabins, the smell of burned ale, the heat of embers, the black of trees caught in the fire, the snow covering all. It felt as if an army had come and wiped it all off. Nothing remained. Roland dismounted and walked around. He remembered this place a happy burrow in Summer, not it was a ruin. All his happiest memories had died here. He sobbed.

He started as he heard something breathing behind a charred wall. The breath was weak. He could sense fear. Roland cautiously walked over there and found her, Ide, alive if not breathing, famished and weak, dark circles surrounding her eyes, sunken cheeks, dry mouth, pale as snow, wrapped into tapestries, wearing her wedding gown, looking like a shroud in the midst of snow and ashes.

Roland knelt to her and she started. He removed his gloves and gently brushed her cheek, again and again, until she was warm with his own warmth. His fingers lingered on her lips and he moved closer, closer, until he could feel her weak heat against his breath. He inhaled her, cupped her face in his hands while she closed her eyes and began crying.

“Why are you here? Did you come to watch me shattering? You want to finish me?” her breath was hardly audible.

Roland recoiled pained. “No. I would never do that. I have come for you. I have come to make amends.”

Ide sniffled. “Samar is dead. Night is dead. The clearing is dead.” she sobbed. “I am dead. Leave me be. Let it take me. It will be all better. I bring nothing but death. I kill.”

Roland's face was agony. “No.”

“I kill.” she howled. I killed a man and I still kill!I kill, I kill, I kill, I kill, I kill, I kill, I KILL!!!! I do not kill them like you on the battlefield, oh, no; I do better and worse! I kill them at birth! Straight from the womb! I kill them before they even know what life is! I kill them even before they are grown enough to breathe in! I killed a man and he haunts me but no death had been more unjust, more unfair, more heinous than that I brought those things in my womb! I kill. I do not choose it, it happens like a curse.” she cried. “Kill me now. I deserve it.”

Roland kissed her forehead and for a moment he felt her yield to his lips. “That is what they say. It is not true. You'll have children again.”

Ide gave him an agonizing look and howled. “No. No I can't.” she scraped a dead part of skin from her fingertips. “I am dead anyway. My body is half pain, half agony.” she gave a weak sigh. “Why did you come here? You hate me. Go back to your betrothed.”

Roland gave a laugh as his hand lingered on her cheek. “How could I hate you? Ide, Constance is Godfrey's wife now.”

“What?” Ide gasped.

“As for hate. It is you who should hate me. I did you things heinous, I told you about my being a monster. How are you not afraid and repulsed, I can't fathom.” he said. “But Ide, I never hated you. Not a second. In your eyes I see myself; I see home, and a warm dwelling. I want to belong in their beauty, I want to be the man the reflection shows me. I want you to be my wife. I don't care if you hate me from now on, I merely want to take you away.” he said.

“I am a second choice.” Ide said. “I am not fit to be a wife. I am fit for death and that is all.”

Roland shook his head. “You were never a second choice. You were always the only one. Ide, I know you hate me, but let me at least free you from this wretched land.”

“I don't hate you.” her voice was weak. “I hate myself. I hate living. Let me starve. Let me die.”

Roland kissed her frozen hand. “How could I let the woman I love die? I would die myself.”

“Don't love me.” she begged. “I don't deserve it.”

“You do.” Roland gave a sharp breath. “Come with me.” he said, kneeling before her crouched body, offering a hand and gentle eyes that stayed haunted no matter the happiness. “You could be my wife, you could be a mother to children, you could be my partner. You could be whatever you want.”

“I want to be dead.” she howled.

Roland gave a hurt look and gently cupped her face in his hands. “No.” he breathed. “Please.” he sobbed “Come with me. Come where it is warm and where sun shines all year, come, Ide and let yourself recover. I can numb your pain and you can ease mine. Forgive yourself for those who love you. Please, come, come and live with me.”

“How can I live? How can I give you children when everything inside of me is dead?” Ide breathed between violent wails.

Roland wrapped his arms around her and gently held her close to his heart. “Syria's summer will revive it all, it will dry your sadness, warm your body, ease your days, brighten your eyes. It will be better than enduring the cold and the rain.” he tenderly looked at her and kissed a tear. “Ide, come with me. Be my wife. So long as you are beside me, I know that I can live a content man. I know there is no atonement for what I did, but I wish – I wish to love you until my dying breath.”

“How could you love a dead thing?”

Roland rolled his eyes. “You're not dead, Ide. You merely wish to be. Every day is a battle with you. It doesn't have to be this way. Why would you be so cruel to yourself?”

Ide sobbed, shaken by wails. “I don't know.”

“Ide, you are alive. You are alive and you are important, maybe not to everyone, but to your sister, to Mahaut, to me. Remember the dead, by do not linger on them. See what is ahead. See the living, feel my love, wake up and bask in the sun. Come with me, my love, my life, my soul. I love you. I love you exceedingly, deliciously. I love you, Ide. I love you.” he said the words as a poem, as a spell, as the most beautiful thing to ever cross his lips.

“You love me.” Ide gave a weak smile. “And yet I have failed you.”

“No.” Roland took her in his arms. “I love you Ide. I love you like I love my home, like I love the sun. I love you perhaps more than life itself. You brought me so much joy and I never want to be parted from you, for it would only bring ruin upon me.” he said, gently wiping a tear off her cheek. “I love you and I wish you could see what I see in you. I know you are strong. I know you can recover. You brought me back to life, I can help you bring life back into you. Give me a smile for now, even for a brief moment; give me a smile, and come with me. Come. You will recover. You will see. I will open your eyes.” he coiled his arms around her and cradled her gently while kissing her hair. “Ide, my love. You are so much more than what you see.”

“What if I can’t see?” she softly sobbed in his neck.

“If I can see, you can. Take it one day at a time. One breath after breath.” he kissed her forehead once again. “You must be brave. I trust you.”

“But what if…” she began.

“You could fill the sea with what-ifs. You cannot know for sure until you tried it and the first step is often the hardest to make. Come on, fear not, I promise all will be well.”

“Do you promise?”

“Always.”

Then Roland stood up and offered his hand to Ide’s crouched and whacked body, shaken by sobs and yet so still and hollowed of any light or life; and Ide looked at him with all the misery of the world, considering letting herself die here in the darkest corner of that miserable house or taking that hand that promised so much happiness, so much struggles, so much hardship, so much joy and so much life. She considered the earth and she considered the sky and that sun that took Roland’s appearance, that solace he offered.

Ide looked at him, shed a last tear before her eyes turned dry and lowered her head again to let herself closer to the earth as if she wanted to dwell here forever, rejoining Tom, her lost children, her parents, Samar, Night and her beloved little brother with his eyes so full of happiness and candor; so full with a lost innocence.

The hand was still open, still offered and Roland waited, anxious to her answer that would be the tolling either of a sheer bliss or of such a misery it would only betoken a lonely death. He wanted her to take it. He wanted her to be with him forever. But she wouldn’t look at him, and she seemed unable to move at all; and Roland sighed, grieving, desperate, ravaged to consider it his greatest loss.

Then a warm shiver ran down his spine as warm fingers grazed his skin, so soft, so gentle, so alive, promising hardship but a life made of hope, of sunlight, of softness of soul.

Then, Ide took his hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. At least, this is the last chapter to a novel I have been writing for a few months. I have started it last february and now it is over, save for the epilogue I'll write after 3 rows of edits. I yearn to send it to an agent (yeah, I am THAT arrogant.) so don't hesitate to drop a constructive criticism here and there, point out grammar mistakes, words I could use in place of another... etc.  
> I'd like to thank y'all for reading this story. I hope you liked my characters and that the love story made you toki doki boomboom. Know that I created a playlist for that story that you can find here https://open.spotify.com/user/o0n96mtp8ufwuwmniglswrunz/playlist/2xT5w0M1B46XXPPqXWJxrT?si=PuSzeyyfTqiHMpvBu9m-bg  
> Thank you so much for following this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyyyyyyy! So yeah Diane Marling's my new pseudo created especially for Original Works. And here's my first (finished) chapter for a romance novel. I'd be more than glad if you'd beta read it and give me your honest opinion. Don't hesitate to correct me on historical inaccuracies and grammar mistakes. I hope you'll like it.


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